The First Heroes

by Harry Turtledove

  At first, when my husband did not come to me in the marriage-bed, I thought it was yet another of his acts of kindness—for he could be kind, when thoughts of the Fates and his destiny were not oppressing him. The brutal war, and the sudden unexpected horror of my mother’s death, had left me easily frightened and prone to nightmares. For a long time, I do not think I could have made myself lie quiet and accepting underneath any man, let alone the killer of Turnus—whom my mother had, perhaps, loved as more than just an old playmate and distant kin. It was good of my husband, or so I thought, to give me the time I needed in which to heal.

  The healing came slowly, but it came. I do not think I would ever have come to enjoy lying with a man, but with Aeneas, who was always gentle to me, I could have learned to tolerate it, and perhaps to give him pleasure even if I found none. And in time there would have been children, which I had begun to want a great deal. Children of Aeneas, out of my body, would carry out my father’s old hopes for Latium, and at the same time would bring my own life full circle, creating anew the family grouping of my early childhood.

  The Fates who had so beset Aeneas must have found me amusing as well: now that I was, finally, ready for my husband, it seemed that my husband was not ready for me. I waited patiently, supposing that his difficult life had left him with ghosts and nightmares of his own, but the months went past and still he did not approach me. I decided at last that patient waiting had failed, and that—since I lacked the talent and the knowledge for seduction—nothing was left but to ask outright.

  I waited until a morning when Askanios was away, and Aeneas and I, except for the servants, were alone. We had taken our morning meal in the courtyard, in the shade of the olive tree, and had talked of everyday matters, the summer weather and the health of the crops and whether the household would need to trade for anything before winter came. When he finished the last of the bread and rose to go, I stopped him.

  “Husband,” I said. “There is another thing.”

  His brows drew together in a worried frown. “Is there trouble again with the clans?” He had come to rely on me, since we were married, to keep him informed about their shifting feuds and alliances. No man not born to Latium could keep them unentangled in his mind.

  “No,” I said. “This concerns the two of us alone.” I took a deep breath, and knotted my hands together in my lap. “Aeneas, when will you give me a child?”

  He became very still, as a man does who spies an adder coiled beneath his descending foot. “Lawinia,” he said. “I thought that you understood.”

  The day was hot and bright, but I felt suddenly cold. “What was it that I was supposed to understand?”

  “This marriage,” he said. “How it would have to be.”

  “No. I don’t understand.” I began to feel a new emotion stirring in me, one that I was unaccustomed to feeling—the deep, bitter anger that comes from loving and from being betrayed. “Explain it to me.”

  Say whatever else you want about Aeneas the son of Anchises, but he was a man honest enough to speak the full truth when it was demanded of him, even though he knew the telling would destroy whatever harmony had grown up between us.

  “Everything I have done,” he said, “from the burning of Wilion until this moment, I have done because the gods desired it and commanded me. They intended this homeland in Latium to be for Askanios and his progeny; I will not go against their will by giving him younger brothers whose claim through you is greater than his own.”

  That was the start of our quarrel, and the sum of it, though it lasted longer and grew worse. In the end I left him, running from the house in the wildness of my anger, not caring who if anyone might follow. I took the winding path to the cliff above the ocean. There, in the solitude of the high place, I unbound my hair and lifted up my hands to pray to the god who had marked me once in the cave at Cumae.

  “Great Dian,” I said, “if it is your will that I am to be neither your priestess nor any man’s true wife, then help me at least to bear the pain. Love for Aeneas sits in my heart like a stone, and does me no good; end it, Great Dian, I beg of you, take it away from me so that at least I will not care.”

  Thus I prayed, even while Aeneas was climbing up the path from the beach below—whether he intended to comfort me or to chastize me, or whether he feared that, like my mother, I might do myself an injury out of despair, I cannot say—and as I prayed, Great Dian reached out with dazzling light and blinded him for an instant so that he slipped and fell.

  That is what Askanios, following after, saw. Not witchcraft, but the hand of the god, struck down Aeneas and sent him to his death.

  She finishes speaking and lifts her head to stare at Watis. Torchlight gilds her face. The young chief and his retinue are watching the elderly seer, but none of them speak, not even Askanios.

  “Do I lie?” Lawinia said. “I submit myself to the judgment of the god.”

  And the god comes to judge her. Watis feels the icy touch of his hands along her face and neck. She begins to tremble; she tosses her head back and pants for breath as the power takes her. Her head snaps forward, but its seems that she is seeing them all from a great height. The girl crouches at her feet, the men step back, jostling each other in fear. Her mouth opens at another’s will, and another’s voice speaks.

  “She is mine. Will any mortal man harm her? She will serve me. Will any mortal man prevent her? She will speak for me. Will any mortal man silence her?”

  Watis gasps for breath. The power slides from her like a wet dress, leaving her shivering. Her hands clasp each other like claws, then release. She is seeing them all from the height of her chair and nothing more. The girl sighs once in sharp relief. The blood has drained from Askanios’s face. He crosses his arms over his chest and tucks his trembling hands into his armpits, perhaps to hide their involuntary motion from his men.

  “Well, Teukrianos?” Watis says. “Man from Wilion, far sailing, Aeneas-son, will you challenge the god for this girl?”

  “Never!” He gulps for breath. “May she serve him well.” He turns to his men. “We’ll camp down on the sea coast. Let’s go. We’ve troubled the holy one too much as it is.”

  To save their dignity they leave slowly, filing out of the cave with their heads held high. Watis waits until their footsteps die away, then stands and hobbles to the mouth of the cave. Lawinia follows. The men are striding down the path, heading for their horses tethered on the beach below.

  “They’re gone,” Watis says. “Tell me the truth. The god never did say whether you lied or not.”

  “My story’s true.” Lawinia pauses, staring down at the floor. “All except the very end. In my anger, I wished Aeneas dead. That’s what I prayed for. And the god gave it to me.”

  “I thought so. Very well.”

  “You won’t—”

  “Won’t what? Berate you? Condemn you?”

  “Just that.”

  For an answer Watis says merely, “The cave gets cold and damp once the sun sets. I need to show you your first task.”

  “Will the god come to me?” Lawinia looks up, her eyes wide.

  “No.” Watis pauses for a smile. “First you need to learn how to scrub the shrine’s floor.”

  In the western hemisphere, the Bronze Age was confined to the Andes, including the Inka people and their neighbors. Spanish chronicles preserve the complexity of their oral history, including the troubled succession of Pachakuteq (who reigned C.A.D. 1438–1471). The colonial writers also described the quirks of their subjects’ personal lives in devastating detail. Although considered one of the greatest indigenous rulers of the Americas, Pachakuteq and his family did not escape their scrutiny, nor that of Karen Jordan Allen.

  Orqo Afloat on the Willkamayu

  KAREN JORDAN ALLEN

  The icy waters of the Willkamayu closed over Orqo as he fell. He still gagged from the blow to his throat, and when the freezing current flooded his mouth and nostrils, he thought himself dead. Then rage filled him, p
ouring a last, desperate strength into his arms and legs. He clutched his heavy mace and lunged for the surface. Damn you, Kusi, he thought. You haven’t won. Not yet.

  He reached the air, coughing desperately and shuddering as the frigid water chafed his skin. Then he heard a splash beside him, and a thunk behind. Stones dropped into the river all around him. He gulped as much air as he could and dove under the surface. A rock glanced off his back. He kicked and kicked until his lungs were ready to burst, then lifted his face just out of the water. He looked quickly over his shoulder, searching the high riverbank for the man who so enraged him, the half-brother who stood with his army between Orqo and the maskapaycha, the insignia of the Inka, Qosqo’s rightful ruler.

  He could see figures on the bank high above, silhouetted against the stone-gray sky, but he could not say which might be Kusi. Only one was unmistakable, the tall form of Roqa, their older brother. He had slung the stone that caught Orqo in the throat. Orqo raised and shook his mace. Let Roqa see that. Let him tell Kusi, Orqo is not defeated.

  A handful of stones pelted the water between him and the watchers. He turned and kicked, swimming hard, for his defiance would come to nothing if he lingered, or let the river swallow him, or went ashore too soon.

  For a time his anger powered his body, and he swam as if he raced the fish. This is not right, he complained to himself as he churned through the water. I am the chosen heir. My father, the eighth Inka, Wiraqocha, named me to follow him. Why do the gods scorn the Inka’s will and side with Kusi?

  He paused once more to look back; he could no longer see the river-bank at Yukay, where he had fallen, nor was anyone in sight. For the moment, he could breathe. But how long would it take Kusi to follow and find him? He gazed up at the green, implacable mountains, the rocks that tumbled down their sides and spilled into the river. The gods knew every crevice and current. Was any place safe?

  Orqo’s feet hit rock. He put out a hand and caught himself on the suddenly shallow bottom, then stood. He cupped one shaking hand around his mouth, and with the other held his mace aloft. Its star-shaped bronze head glistened. “Speak to me!” he screamed to the mountains. “Tell me! What must I do?”

  And he waited, breathless, in case the gods finally broke their silence. But the stillness swelled and grew until he felt himself sinking in a bottomless river of it.

  Orqo’s shoulders sagged. He pulled off his heavy, sodden tunic, which made it hard to swim, then threw himself back into the freezing water wearing only his loincloth.

  So. He fought alone, or nearly so. Kusi had most of Qosqo on his side, the generals, the pururawka-kuna—the warrior stones—and the gods. He, Orqo, had only himself, his mother, and an aged father whose grasp on power was slipping, and whose judgment had already proved disastrous.

  Father, Father, we should have stayed in Qosqo and fought the Chankas, Orqo thought. We should have defended the city with Kusi. No matter how fierce the enemy. Did you think the people would love us better for deserting them to save ourselves? Did you truly believe they would accept your peace treaty at the cost of their freedom?

  No, Orqo mused bitterly, we should have fought. And if Kusi had died—heroically in battle, of course—then there would have been no question about who would succeed Inka Wiraqocha as ruler of Qosqo.

  Damn you, Kusi! Orqo thought again. And then, Damn you, too, Father. Damn you, damn you.

  The news from Qosqo had reached the fortress of Hakihawana in the morning, suddenly.

  “Kusi is coming! With his army!” The messenger skidded into the Inka Wiraqocha’s private courtyard, pulled off his sandals, and bowed hastily.

  Orqo dropped his half-eaten maize cake and looked sharply at the intruder. His mother, Qori Chullpa, who leaned against her son’s back as she ate, stiffened but said nothing. Orqo glanced from the panting messenger to his father, and finally to Waman Waraka, the Chanka envoy who shared their morning meal. The envoy slowly set his plate on the blanket that was spread over the ground. The evening before, he and Wiraqocha had concluded a peace treaty between the Inka people and the Chankas, providing, of course, for a great deal of tribute to go to the Chankas. But, Orqo thought, if Kusi had accomplished the unthinkable, and successfully driven the Chankas from Qosqo—

  A contingent of guards dashed in, grabbed for the messenger, and shrugged in apology, but Wiraqocha stilled them with a gesture. The man bowed again, but his eyes were still wide with the enormity of his news. “The Chankas are defeated,” he gasped. “A great victory. Qosqo is saved. Even the stones—”

  He stopped and looked at Waman Waraka. The Chanka man’s face had paled, but he stood up quietly. “I think this message is not for my ears. I will return to my apartments.” His mantle flapped as he left the courtyard.

  Orqo unfolded his legs and rose slowly. “The stones what? Go on.”

  Wiraqocha touched Orqo’s foot and whispered to him to sit down, but Orqo straightened and folded his arms. The messenger threw himself to the ground. “The stones themselves. The pururawka-kuna. Kusi commanded them. They became warriors, fierce warriors, men and women, and they fell upon the Chankas like wild animals. I saw them, lords.”

  A dusty silence settled. Orqo felt the guards staring at him. He leveled his gaze at the nearest one until the man looked away.

  “So Kusi marches from Qosqo?” Wiraqocha’s voice was quiet, dangerously quiet.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “How far is he from here?”

  “Half a day’s march from Hakihawana, lord.”

  “Then we must prepare for his arrival.” Wiraqocha held out a hand to Qori Chullpa, who helped him to his feet. He moved stiffly, but his back remained straight and proud, Orqo noted. When Kusi arrived, Wiraqocha would remind him who was Inka, still. And who was to become Inka.

  “How fares Mama Runtu?” Qori Chullpa asked. “I know she stayed in Qosqo, at her son’s side.” Orqo looked at her. Why would she ask about Wiraqocha’s official wife?

  “The Qoya is well, and still at her home in Qosqo.”

  “Well, it is good news, is it not? Qosqo remains in our hands, and the Qoya is unharmed.” Qori Chullpa’s smile rebuked Wiraqocha and Orqo for not pretending, at least, to be glad for the victory. Orqo flushed. His mother poured a cup of aqha and handed it to the messenger, who gulped the fermented maize drink greedily. Then she gathered up the breakfast things. “I will see to the preparations for the feast,” she said, and she disappeared into the shadows.

  Orqo waited for his father to say something, but Wiraqocha just stared into the sky over the fortress walls. The guards shifted nervously. Finally the Inka gave them his attention. “You may go,” he said. “Find this man a room where he may rest, and give him food. Then bring him to me again. I wish to question him further.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “And send fresh messengers to watch Kusi’s approach. They must watch secretly. I want to know everything.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  Wiraqocha dismissed them with a nod, and the guards and messenger departed. For the first time since the news had arrived, Wiraqocha looked at Orqo. His eyes were opaque, his expression betrayed nothing. Orqo clenched his fists. This is not what you promised! he wanted to shout to his father. The Chankas are fierce, you said. Let Kusi stay and fight them if he insists, you said—the Chankas will kill him for us. We will treat for peace. Then when our neighbors have their fill of Chanka cruelty, they will come to us for aid, and you, Orqo, you will lead them to victory.

  Then, Orqo remembered, his mother—listening, as always—had whispered, This is a dangerous plan, lord. I fostered Kusi and taught him. I know him better than any woman, better even than his own mother. He is—different.

  But Wiraqocha had remained stubborn, and the three of them had fled Qosqo for Hakihawana, where they could treat for peace in safety. Yes, safety, thought Orqo, but at the cost of what later danger?

  Orqo could no longer swallow his bitterness. “We should have listened to my mother,” h
e said. “We should have stayed.”

  Wiraqocha shook his head. “The Chankas threatened to destroy Qosqo. You know their numbers, and their skill in fighting—to challenge them without allies would have been foolishness for an experienced general, let alone a boy.” He crossed his arms. “I will believe this victory when I see the Chankas dead at my feet, and touch the mummy of Osqo Willka with my own hand.”

  Orqo wished his father to be right. But he remembered the messenger’s urgent haste, and he was afraid. “If Kusi has won, Father,” he said slowly, “the people of Qosqo will never accept me as Inka after you, no matter what you say. Many of them already prefer Kusi.”

  “If Kusi has won,” Wiraqocha said, “we will find other ways to deal with him.”

  Yes, thought Orqo, swimming slowly now. Other ways to deal with Kusi! Which did his father mean? The botched ambush? The hasty and disorganized campaign that had led Orqo to defeat above the river at Yukay?

  A cold ripple slopped over his face. Ambush, he thought. Again he scanned the rocky riverbanks, and the steep slopes beyond. Still he saw no one. His mind raced ahead, trying to follow the sacred river, to remember anything about its course or the terrain along its banks—rapids, bridges, fords, shrines. But he had not explored it, not as Kusi had. Their father had let Kusi come and go as he pleased, but kept him, Orqo, the future Inka, all but tethered, training him in arms but refusing to let him go to war, teaching him geography but trapping him at home, schooling him in languages but sending other envoys to their allies for fear of ambush or treason.