Cusco seemed newly fragile to me. Even as servants bathed me in the Coricancha’s stone chambers, scouring away dirt and hard work, I could not appreciate the palace’s beauty. The Americans! What could they want from us? They were a British splinter group, ruled from overseas–much the way we ruled tribes across three thousand miles of desert, rainforest, and mountains. Yet they called themselves both British subjects, and Americans.
No Incan ruler would tolerate such a thing. The leaders of conquered peoples were granted nobility in Cusco, and imperial loyalists were sent to the new lands as rulers. In this way all became Incan. I could not understand why the British did not do likewise.
And so I waited, naked and solitary, for my turn to see the god-emperor. Twelve days must pass before contact, per Ronpa’s guidance. The ruler had singlehandedly saved the Incan Empire, or what was left after millions died in the 1500s. I was comfortable enough; the waiting chambers held heated bricks and fascinating mosaics. I was not allowed to touch anything, and so I sat and thought. It was hard not to think through my history lessons, to remember foolish Pizarro who attacked 80,000 Incas with only 168 Spaniards; mere horses, cannons, and armor could not daunt so many Incan warriors! The brave Atahualpa slew most of Pizarro’s men, keeping seven to teach him how cannons worked.
I thought of these men, as my attendants dressed me in the finest tunic I had ever touched. But even those Spaniards, who had lived with smallpox since anyone could remember, did not know how to manage it. It was Incan science that figured out how to quarantine and sanitize. I found courage here. The gods may have tested us, but my people triumphed–and eventually took back our lost lands, until our empire was as glorious as before. This time, Incas and outsiders would meet on equal ground.
But one thing nagged me, as the servants pressed thick gold earplugs through my ears. I would be held responsible for these Americans’ words. Surely they came to bargain. If they threatened the Sapa Inca, I would have to alter their tone–or the ruler might blame me for their sacrilege. Yet if the Sapa Inca knew I translated imperfectly, I might be killed for that offense too. I held an unwinnable position.
The attendants strapped a heavy gold block to my back, for no man could meet the Sapa Inca unburdened. I staggered under the weight. Unless the barbarians were perfect nobles–gentle and respectful in all ways–my fate was tied to theirs. And I had little hope that they would respect our god-emperor enough to avoid offense.
A servant led me from the waiting room. I stumbled barefoot on the tiled floor, nearly blind to my surroundings. Massive stone pillars and golden trim marked my route. I passed lines of nobles, each clad more finely than the last, wearing gold sun-masks that marked their ranks. It was like a strange dream that might vanish on waking. I waited behind three different doors, each grander than the previous, until finally the imperial crier summoned me forth.
I steeled myself. If the Sapa Inca received the Americans, then surely he must hear their request. He would want my honest translation. With aching back and pounding heart, I stumbled into the throne room. I walked what seemed like the entire length of Cusco to reach the Sapa Inca’s pedestal. I pressed my body to the floor and did not lift myself until called. Even then I rose slowly and kept my eyes downcast.
Before me stood the great gold screen, carved with pumas and condors and flowers, which hid the man my eyes were unworthy to see.
2. The Sapa Inca Speaks
You, my grandson, have seen the throne room yourself, because of your father’s accomplishments. Perhaps my story seems mundane. You must remember–I never dreamed of meeting the Sapa Inca. When I was fourteen, I still lived in the village Pitahaya, where I farmed and hunted and studied my British grandfather’s Bible. I had only two dreams: to farm my own land, and to have a brother. You will not appreciate how difficult a boy’s life is with two elder and two younger sisters!
So you must picture this day as if you were me, my child. When smallpox struck Pitahaya, my elder sisters had already married into other villages. I was away on my first solo hunt, preparing to become a man. My parents and younger sisters stayed home.
Imagine yourself on a hunt today–yes, I know you prefer sailing, but bear with me. You’re alone, with your musket and your senses. You stalk a raptor or wildcat, and think yourself clever. You might kill a condor, as I did, and declare yourself a man. You mark your face with its blood. You walk home, proud and triumphant, after your five-day hunt.
Then you reach the village hill and find you cannot walk further. Imperial soldiers block your way. Smallpox has struck your home. Houses burn, to kill the disease, and you don’t know who’s inside. The soldiers tell you three-fourths of your village has died. They cannot tell you of your family. You must look to the sickly clusters, sleeping in the open air, quarantined by scarred pox survivors. You cannot join them, so you squint from a distance, wishing your eyes were those of the condor you killed.
But no. My child, you cannot imagine such madness. You no longer fear smallpox the way we did. Three days passed before I learned my family’s fate. My mother recovered, but my sisters went blind. My father died moaning my name. My grandson, you will never come home to a deeply scarred family–to learn that overnight your family is newly valued as Ronpa. Your fortune is made. But at what cost! Look at your wrecked village, where women weep, where possessions burn. See your friends and neighbors, drowned by the dozens in pestilence.
Try to understand, dear boy. Because the story of you depends on this fear.
My burning village haunted me as I met the Sapa Inca, who sat unapproachable behind his solid screen. I knew he had never seen such a thing.
“You are Lanchi Ronpa,” stated an imperious voice from behind the golden wall.
“Yes, Your Divinity,” I answered, and flushed hot as the nobles tittered behind their masks. I was supposed to address him as Greatness; that other title meant his brother the High Priest.
Luckily, the voice sounded amused. “Lanchi Ronpa, you will translate for the Americans when they are granted entrance. Keep yourself firm at all times. Speak in your most imperial tone when you convey our words, as if you were the greatest of men. When you interpret their words, use a vulnerable tone. We command you to translate as accurately as possible.”
Those words relieved me somewhat, but not entirely. The Sapa Inca might announce one thing, and do another if sufficiently angered. No one would question his fickleness. So I simply said, “I hear and obey, Your Greatness.”
“Stand beside this screen to speak.”
Nervously I approached the screen, which extended sideways to shield the god-emperor completely. I heard nobles whispering. No matter what else happened this day, I would be remembered as the Ronpa who stood on the highest step. My knees shook. I could not have borne seeing the Sapa Inca’s face.
A woman’s voice spoke softly next to me. “Lanchi Ronpa, you will also ask any question I have of these Americans when the time comes.”
The Coya Inca! She was here as well. Most ruling women kept to their domestics, but this one had always been ambitious. Wife to the Sapa, she was the moon who shone beneath his daylight. I had no idea how to address her. I murmured, “I hear and obey, star of the purest sky.”
The compliment seemed acceptable, as no words came from behind the screen. Thus I waited for the Americans.
Soon the imperial guards appeared, armed with every weapon known to us, from traditional bolas to modern flintlock rifles–the best our scientists had developed. We had not stumbled through centuries of poverty and war; only plagues interrupted our science. Ever since Atahualpa’s reign, imperial guards remained armed at all times. One never knew when a diplomat might attack. So many warriors arrived that I could see nothing else. Then the procession parted like grain in the wind, and I saw the Americans.
My child, I tell you–I feared disappointment that they were only men, but in fact I was astonished. The Americans were five in number. All wore heavy stones on their backs. First I noticed the
ir leader–who, at that time, I thought might be king. He had deep-set eyes like my grandfather, with ghostly irises and rust-colored eyebrows. His hair amazed me, for it was curled throughout, and aged white despite his young face. It looked like he had rolled it on sticks and slept on it while damp. I wondered why this man would arrange his hair so strangely.
But these thoughts vanished quickly–for among the Americans stood the strangest man I’d ever seen. His skin was dark as fertile soil, with hair like the black llamas that honor the creator god. Like the others, he wore strange clothing: a fine white shirt, with excess fabric gathered at his throat. His shirt was far too short, only falling to his waist, and fine wool fitted the shape of his legs. I saw no point in this; it seemed confining, but I recalled that Europeans had long dressed in this fashion. He looked younger than the leader, though perhaps that was because of the leader’s white hair.
I met the dark man’s gaze, though he quickly looked down. The pale man addressed me in English. I thanked Inti that he spoke slowly, which helped me. He said, “Praise God that we have arrived here to meet you, and that you have welcomed us. We are Americans, and currently subjects of the British Empire. In the name of the thirteen American colonies, I greet you and request that we negotiate.”
I paused before translating “God”–did he mean Inti or did he mean the character from British mythology? I finally translated as “divinity,” and I think the Sapa Inca took it as meaning the true gods.
The court scribe said, “State your name, title, and rank for the records.”
“I am Ambassador John Fernando Loddington de Godoy. As you request my rank, I will state that my father owns an enormous farm in Virginia, which is the most proud and courageous of the American lands. My mother was Spanish-born of noble blood, and thus my titling is to Catalan lands. In America my nobility comes from the amount of land I own. You must forgive my slow response. American ranks are understood very differently.”
I wondered how Americans recognized their nobles, but it was not my role to ask. I translated his words. The scribe took notes and said, “You may address the Sapa Inca. He will respond only if he pleases. When you are finished, you must leave, whether or not he has spoken.”
Loddington looked at the screen. I saw his distrust; he clearly lacked confidence that any man sat there at all, let alone the Sapa Inca. Yet he recognized his place, and his words showed his cleverness.
He said, “I am pleased that the Sapa Inca considered our proposal worthy, and that he would bring his most honored presence to this meeting so that he might hear with his own ears and respond with his own voice. Though we had chosen our translator and prepared ourselves accordingly, his great wisdom moved him to choose his own man. Indeed, what effective ruler could trust a translator who was not self-selected and aligned with his interests?”
By this, I learned not to underestimate this man. I felt uncomfortable translating the last part, because it might inspire the Sapa Inca to ensure that I was in fact perfectly aligned. I worried that this might force the marriage of my daughter to an imperial cousin, perhaps within the week. You may think this an overreaction–but that is precisely the power the ruler held, and he might on a whim raise my fortune and deprive my daughter of her free choice. At any rate, I saw Loddington’s intent. He had both complimented and condemned the man in the same words–and ensured that the Sapa Inca would prove his presence with his own voice.
Our ruler did precisely as Loddington intended. The voice from the screen spoke with the strength of a mountain storm. “We are most curious about your intent. Why have you come to this land? What could your impoverished people offer us?”
“We bring relief from the smallpox which devastates your empire.”
“A cure?” I blurted out, forgetting myself.
“Better than a cure. We bring something that will make you–” and here he spoke a word I did not know.
I meant to clarify, but the scribe interrupted me and said, “Translate immediately for the Sapa Inca.”
“I am trying,” I said in Quechua, “but I must understand properly first.” I addressed Loddington in English. “What does this word mean? Say it again?”
“Immune,” he said clearly. “Smallpox will never affect you. This is what happens after a person receives the vaccine.”
That last word was also unfamiliar, but I didn’t need a definition. This vaccine was a brilliant device that could save my people. My heart lifted at the thought. What wasa vaccine? Perhaps a gift, or an item? My imagination suggested a suit of golden armor, with gaps too small for a pustule to cross. I wondered how many men could wear it.
But of course I must translate, and so I said in Quechua, “He offers something calledvaccine, which he says will prevent smallpox from affecting a person. They will not sicken.”
“Not sicken?” repeated the Sapa Inca, clearly surprised. All the nobles whispered at once. Words swelled among the crowd and flowed outward from the lower palace, like water cascading down a hillside.
“That is his claim, Your Greatness,” I said.
“Convey neither surprise nor interest. Ask how this vaccine works.”
I did so, and Loddington smiled in a familiar way. A man smiles like that when he knows he will win the coming battle. But, my grandson: remember that an unseen battle has no certain victor, for time and terrain will vary the outcome.
Loddington said, “Surely Your Greatness will understand that the precise method of conveying the vaccine cannot be shared without guaranteed payment.”
At my translation, the Sapa Inca said, “Explain how the vaccine works. We cannot believe anything known to science would stop the illness.”
Loddington’s response surprised me greatly. He said, “Bring twenty healthy men to my camp outside Cusco, and let them stay five days. I will give them the vaccine. Then send them to a village where smallpox rages. Have them share drinks with the infected. Your men will remain whole.”
I couldn’t believe what I heard. All men knew that sharing a drink with an infected person meant exposure; even breathing air might contaminate a man. Before I translated, I asked Loddington, “What is this vaccine? The Sapa Inca will be more tolerant if he has some idea of its nature. Is it a mask, or… a charm perhaps? Or maybe a kind of healing earth? How do you know it will work on our people?”
Loddington chuckled and said, “It’s like teaching a boy to shoot a bird. When the boy grows up, he can shoot a lion. I could not show you the vaccine even if I wished to; it is so small that a beetle wearing spectacles could not see it.”
I blew my breath out my cheek, thinking perhaps the man was mad–but I translated these words for my audience. I knew what lions were from the Bible, but I used the word puma for simplicity. At my speech, even more murmurs rose from the nobles. Cusco would discuss this day for years to come.
The Sapa Inca remained silent for a long time. I heard the Coya Inca whispering, but I couldn’t make out her words. Finally the Sapa Inca said, “Lanchi Ronpa, are you sure you understand this man?”
“Yes, Your Greatness.”
“Ask him–if this vaccine proves effective, how many men could we protect?”
Upon hearing this request, Loddington replied boldly, “Your Greatness, I will teach your doctors how to protect every man, woman, and child in the Four Quarters. With the vaccine, your doctors can save your great Empire from this terrible scourge.”
As I considered this, he added, “Think of what you might become, if you cast off the Spanish plague. Your empire even now surpasses those of Britain and Spain, including their New World holdings. France is a distant contender–and believe me, I have patrolled our western border and dealt with many Frenchmen. The world could lie at your feet. The Inca could expand northwards and expel Spain from the California Territory and Mexico. We offer you the chance to seize these rich lands from their overseas masters, that they may serve Incan glory instead.”
As soon as I dared, I translated so I would not miss any nua
nce. It was difficult to keep it all together. I was thinking about how, after the worst of the 16th century plagues, we Incas had needed two hundred years just to recover our former size. The reconquest of the southern lands had required huge expense and effort–slowed by smallpox. We’d lost time in quarantining victims and performing medical experiments. We’d grown skilled at limiting the disease’s reach, but made no progress on understanding its cause. If those great minds researching smallpox could be transferred to the project of Incan expansion–!
It seemed the Sapa Inca thought as I did, for his next question was, “If this vaccineproves effective, what is its price?
Most diplomats would have hedged their answer, but Loddington proved a bolder man. He said, “Four thousand times my own weight in gold, and a peace treaty between our nations.”
I was certain I’d misheard that, so I clarified the number with him. But I had indeed heard correctly. I conveyed the request to the Sapa Inca, thinking he’d laugh the American out of the room. Gold belonged to Inti; we valued it for spiritual power and not as a bargaining tool. But the Sapa Inca said nothing, even though the nobles shouted their outrage.
After some time, the Sapa Inca replied, “That is the weight of the sunrise itself.”
“That is our price,” said Loddington firmly.
“As a mere subject, you have no right to speak for Britain and thus cannot offer any such bargain. Furthermore, if you truly possess such a scientific miracle, any man with humanitarian values would offer it for only the cost of his voyage and supplies, plus some incidental reward.”
“To your second point–if I acted on my own free will, then a humanitarian mission might happen, which would assure me the richest seat in Heaven. But I represent the thirteen American Colonies under British rule, and in their name, I ask such an enormous price. For you see, we wish our nation free of British rule. We desire a land of free men who decide their own affairs, rather than suffer rule from afar. And the price of this vaccine would fund our war against Britain–who taxes us unfairly and strips our resources, while giving nothing in return. You must understand–our overseas tyrants are nothing like what you’ve seen in your Empire’s history. Here in the Four Quarters, the government cares for its people. Tales abound in our history books of how the Sapa Inca provides new clothing for every bride and groom in the land. Surely you understand why men must pursue fair treatment from their leaders.”
Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two Page 460
