The Moche Warrior

by Lyn Hamilton

  “Not the ‘pocalypse again,” I said, my irritation plain. I didn’t want to shake him anymore: I was contemplating strangling him.

  “No!” he exclaimed. “Real life. Now!”

  This is ridiculous, I thought. But there was something in his voice, an edgy panic perhaps, that made me follow him across the sand toward a cluster of small houses not far away.

  He gestured to me to be quiet and to crouch down as we drew near. Soon we were creeping across the front porch of the largest of the houses and up just beside the screen door. Inside, I heard the scraping of a chair against a wooden floor, a cough or two, and then a gruff voice said, “You are here to be tried for the murder of Rolando Guerra. How do you plead?”

  God, no, I thought, leaning carefully over until I could just see into the room.

  Steve Neal was standing there, his head in profile, hands tied behind his back. He did not reply to his accuser. On the far side of the room was a group of women and children. I could not see the speaker. “Go,” I said to Puma, putting my mouth right up to his ear. “Go and get the police. Here, keys to the truck, by the highway,” I said, pointing toward the clump of trees where I’d left the vehicle. Puma nodded and crept away. I hope they believe him, I thought, and I hope they hurry.

  “How do you plead?” the voice inside said harshly. “Guilty or not guilty?”

  Still Steve said nothing. I edged myself toward the door to see better. Steve, thinner already, with a stubble of beard, was surrounded by five men, all of whom I’d seen at Rolando Guerra’s funeral, and none of them happy. The sixth, a forty-something man I recalled having seen in the nasty confrontation at the site, was sitting at the table, the judge of this kangaroo court. A little girl, Rolando’s daughter, sat listlessly playing with a doll.

  “In the absence of a plea, you have been found guilty,” the man growled. “The sentence is death, by hanging. Is there anything you have to say?”

  “Yes, there is,” Steve said. The judge looked surprised, whether from Steve’s perfect Spanish, or the fact that Steve was now intent upon being heard, I couldn’t guess.

  “Then say it!” the man ordered.

  Steve took a deep breath and began. “It is not I who is on trial here, it is you.” The men shuffled angrily in their seats.

  “Quiet!” the judge ordered. “Let him speak.”

  Steve paused for a moment, then went on. “You are living in one of the most inhospitable places on the planet. This is a land of earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, floods, droughts, and disease. And yet,” he paused, “and yet, on this tiny strip of sand, wedged between the mountains and the sea, a little over two thousand years ago, a great civilization was born.

  “Somehow the people of this region gained control of the waterways, built canal systems to allow the desert to bloom, for a nation to flourish. They built cities that would reflect their power, huge ceremonial centers of towering pyramids, that must have struck other people dumb with amazement. These people are now called the Moche, after the river south of here, and the language, muchic, that was spoken in ancient times.

  “Their cities held the largest adobe brick structures anywhere, anytime, expressions of their might, their temporal power. There were huge ceremonial courtyards lined with astounding works of art, frescoes that may have told their whole history in a single panel. These were cities where artists flourished, a civilization wealthy enough that the elite could support an artist class, some of the most singularly gifted artists of any age. The society of the Moche was one organized around rituals, some of them bloody indeed, and yet their art soared above the bloodshed, expressing their belief in the supernatural and in the sacredness of the everyday. They buried their dead with elaborate rituals and great care. You can tell a lot about people when you know how they treat their dead,” he said, looking accusingly at every man in that room, one or two of whom squirmed visibly. “And the Moche buried even the lowliest among them with ceremony and respect.

  “These people did what you do. They fished the waters off these coasts, they hunted deer, they engaged in athletic events, they had toothaches, they made war.

  “How do we know these things? We know this because we are able to study the remarkable works of art they left behind. There are ceramic vessels that show us the faces of these people, portraits that we believe are uncannily accurate. There are other vessels that show us ancient fishermen using the same reed boats, the caballitos, that fishermen off these shores use today; we see scenes of the deer hunt, of ritual combat, of sacrifice. We look at their works, their craftsmanship, and we see a great people, the people who are your ancestors.

  “Your children study the stories of the conquistadores, of Spain, Greece, and Rome. Should they not learn as much—no, should they not learn more, of the great civilizations from which they are descended? Of course they should.

  “But every time you steal one of the objects the Moche created, and sell it to the el Hombres of this world, a little bit of your heritage is lost to you and to the rest of us. I know you are thinking that this is easy for me to say, that I live in a nice house in California, with two cars, and count as necessities things you can only dream of having, that I don’t have to struggle to put food on the table. You’re right, and I’m going to say it anyway. You are not just robbers of the dead. You rob your children of their heritage. You rob yourselves of your pride.” He paused. “That’s all I have to say.”

  Not one word was uttered when he’d finished. Some of the faces I could see showed confusion, others resistance. I felt it could go either way. Then an older woman, hair long and grey, a brown shawl wrapped around her shoulders, stood up. It was Rolando Guerra’s mother, the woman who had walked dry-eyed behind his coffin. She began to speak quietly, so much so that I had to strain to hear. “I have lost an uncle to this, I have lost a husband, and now,” she said, her voice breaking, “I have lost a son. Hear what this man says. We know why Rolando died. This man did not kill him. Rolando killed himself. This must stop. You say you do this, you rob the tombs, to make a better life for your families. But your children and your wives would rather have you with them.” The other women nodded, the older children looked on solemnly, and the young ones, sensing perhaps that something very important was happening, fell silent.

  “I would rather have my son alive than all the gold in Peru,” she said, tears now in her eyes. “We will survive without it. For God’s sake, stop this now.”

  Still no one said anything. I pulled the screen door open, stepped into the room, and said, “El Hombre doesn’t just smuggle antiquities. He also ships drugs. That is the kind of person you are dealing with. And tonight, he is flying cocaine and the contents of a tomb of a Moche warrior out of Peru from a dirt runway on the other side of the woods. What’s it going to be?”

  The Decapitator

  18

  They didn’t hear us coming, the sound of the trucks muffled by the din of the incoming aircraft. Four trucks, each driven by one of the Guerras, dipped and dove around the woodland and across the desert sands, sometimes on a worn roadway, others overland. As we rushed forward on an interception course with the smugglers, the rains, long expected, began, the first drops forming tiny craters in the dry, dry earth. I sat with Steve in the first vehicle to point the way. Ahead of us, small fires flared up one at a time in two neat rows, and a plane, coming in low, hit the runway with a thump, and then whipped to a stop in front of the hut.

  Four people were silhouetted against the light from the burning paint cans, their shadows dancing across the walls of the hut. Behind them loomed the Andes, implacable, immovable. One of them, catching sight of us in the distance, bolted to the aircraft. Within seconds, we heard the whine of the engines revving up, and the plane began to shudder as he readied it for takeoff. Another—Lucho, I was almost certain—disappeared inside the hut next to the runway.

  “Cut him off!” Steve yelled, jumping out of the lead truck and waving his arms in the direction of the runway. “Don�
�t let him take off!” The Guerras moved their battered old trucks into position. But the pilot, seeing them, swung the plane around and began to move down the runway in the direction from which he’d come. The wheels of our truck, driven by the youngest Guerra brother, Regulo, spun as he wrestled it across the sand in a futile attempt to catch the escaping plane.

  The pilot let out the brakes and the aircraft began to hurtle away from us. Suddenly, just as the airplane seemed about to hit takeoff speed, the grey Nissan, Hilda at the wheel, bounced across the runway and careened to a stop right in the path of the airplane. I almost screamed in fear for Hilda as the door opened, and she tried to get out. Clearly in pain, she couldn’t move fast enough. I thought she was almost certainly going to be killed.

  At the last moment, the pilot swerved to avoid the truck, then lost control on the runway, already slick from the first of the rain. The plane plowed into the little hut, sweeping it right off its foundation, and then plunged into the woods, coming to rest in a thicket of thorn trees, one engine still shrieking at maximum power. Regulo Guerra pulled the truck off the runway and up to the plane, and Steve pulled a dazed pilot from the cockpit. Manco Capac made a feeble attempt to get away, but fell to his knees a few feet from the aircraft.

  A shout went up from the Guerras. I turned and saw Laforet’s gold Mercedes wheel around, fishtailing in the sand, heading for the road. Carla Cervantes, now abandoned and left to her own devices, first tried to run after the departing car, and then headed into the woods, one of the Guerras in hot pursuit. Hilda had followed the Mercedes, I thought. She was here because she had followed Laforet from town. And now he was going to get away, as he always did.

  The Nissan was still running when I climbed in. I pulled it into gear and started after Laforet. He had a good head start by now, but I kept going, thinking I would at least keep him in sight until help came along. He picked up the dirt road between the river and the irrigation canal, moving along at a good clip. Water sprayed from his wheels as he went. Water! I thought. Where is this coming from? But soon it was clear. The river, swollen from the rain in the mountains, was overflowing its banks. The water made the road treacherous, but Laforet barely slowed down. I knew if he made it to the highway, I’d never catch him.

  We were almost there. I could see the lights of Paraiso off to the right. Laforet had a choice here. The shortest route to the highway would be a quick right across a stretch of sand a few yards wide, then on to the cleared area in front of Paraiso, then straight to the highway. The other choice was to stick with the road, turn left, cross the river on a little bridge, and pick up the highway to the south.

  I found myself trying to second-guess Laforet. The shorter route was the obvious choice, but it was risky because he might get bogged down in the sand. Being in the truck, I had a better view ahead than he did, and I could see that the Paraiso route would not work for him. There was a flashing blue light in the parking area that signaled an official car of some sort. Perhaps Puma had brought the police.

  I decided he’d have to go left, and although I was still well behind, I tried to make up some ground and head him off at the bridge. Laforet kept to the right, but seeing the flashing light, pulled the Mercedes into reverse, and then went for the bridge. I was right on his tail as he went over the hill and started down toward it. The bridge, once high and dry over a dusty riverbed, was covered with a film of water, and the road leading down to it was very slippery, the mud feeling like glare ice under the truck. I switched to four-wheel drive, but I could feel the tires loosing their traction as I crested the hill just a little too fast.

  Ahead of me, Laforet’s car began to slide. He made it onto the bridge, sliding sideways by now. The car made a wide arc, hitting the wooden bridge railing broadside. For a second or two, the car hovered there—I, and I imagined Laforet, holding our breath—then, with a sound more like a moan than a crack, the railing gave way, and the car plunged several feet into the raging current. I pumped the brakes, but it was too late. I too lost control and the truck slid down the embankment, but more slowly than Laforet had, missed the bridge entirely, and came to a stop heading straight down the riverbank, still upright, but with water rushing over the hood of the truck. Laforet, I could not see.

  I tried to push open the door on the driver’s side, but it wouldn’t budge, the force of the water against it too great. The truck was now swaying and creaking as the water pushed against it, and it slowly started to tilt downstream. I knew if I stayed in the truck I was dead, that it would either flip or be swept away. I slid with difficulty across the front seat and pushed as hard as I could against the passenger door. It gave way, and I fell into the water. I’m a good swimmer, but the rush of the water was so strong, I could just barely keep my head above water. I fought the current but was tired within seconds. I finally just let myself go, gasping for air as I was swept along.

  Many yards downstream I crashed against something and scrabbled for a handhold. It took me a few seconds to realize I’d been stopped by the Mercedes, caught against a tree branch that angled out from the riverbank. I saw—or thought I did, it was so dark—the lifeless face of Etienne Laforet, hair streaming upward, mangled hand pressed to the glass, eyes wide open, staring at me through the windshield. I grabbed the door handle and held on, screaming for help, knowing as I did so, that it was hopeless, that no one would hear. I knew that even though I was just a few feet from solid ground, I would never make it, that if I let go of the door handle to try to reach the embankment, I’d be swept away.

  Just as I felt the last of my strength ebb from my fingers and arms, a dark figure loomed above me on the bank. It was Cesar Montero. He must have been at Paraiso and heard the crack of the bridge as it gave way. I’m dead, I thought. He’ll just walk away and leave me, and the river will do the rest. No one will know. He disappeared, as I thought he would, but then reappeared a few seconds later with a long pole.

  “Grab the pole,” he yelled at me.

  Was this a trick? Was he going to use the pole to push me off the car and into the raging stream? I felt the Mercedes shudder and start to slip into the current once more. Should I take my chances with Montero or the car?

  In my fevered brain, I thought I saw Ines, dressed as she had been that first day I’d seen her, hovering in thin air, a few feet over the Mercedes. “What should I do?” I yelled at her.

  She gestured toward the pole. “Take it,” she said.

  I let go of the door handle with my right hand and reached for the pole.

  “Good,” Montero yelled. “Now the other one.”

  The car started to slide. I had no choice. I let go of the door handle with my left hand and grabbed the pole tightly. The Mercedes flipped over and slid downstream once more. I felt Cesar pulling hand over hand on the pole. Then his arms grabbed me and pulled me to safety.

  *

  The worst of the rain held off until Manco Capac, shaken but alive and even relatively unhurt, had been led away in chains. The Guerras caught up to Carla, already badly scratched by thorns, only a few yards into the woods. Lucho took a little longer. He’d managed to make it into the tunnel before the airplane ripped through the hut, and was holed up in the chamber at the bottom of the spiral staircase. With the Guerras guarding the trapdoor at the runway end of the tunnel, and Campina Vieja’s finest at the top of the staircase, it was only a matter of time before he surrendered.

  There was no time for rest, to ponder what had happened and the terror of what might have been. By three in the morning, the rain was coming down in torrents. The Pan-American Highway was flooded, the irrigation canals, already full to overflowing from the water from the mountains, were now spewing their water in sheets across the land. The federal police were out going door to door, urging everyone to leave. A steady stream of cars, trucks, and motorcycles headed south for shelter.

  There was no time to deal with the tomb of the Moche warrior, nor unfortunately with Montero, so the police moved the crates back undergrou
nd to their original hiding place, sealed the trapdoor at the runway end of the tunnel, locked up the little house, and posted a policeman on the door.

  “I’m not going. We’ve got to save the site,” Steve said. “Anyone who wants to go can do so.” None of us moved.

  “All hands on deck, then!” he yelled, and we headed for Cerro de las Ruinas: Ralph, Tracey, Hilda, Pablo, the students, Puma, the Guerras, and any of the workers we could track down. Steve supervised from the top of the huaca, Hilda down below. It was backbreaking, bone-chilling work. I was so exhausted, physically and mentally, that I wasn’t much help, but I did what I could. The Guerras brought large plastic sheeting to cover up the vigas as best we could. Slipping and sliding on the greasy surface, working in the dark, we all shoveled the back dirt, now mud, over the excavation. I had a niggling sense of unfinished business, something I should think about, but there was no time.

  At the dark point just before dawn, I was sent back to the hacienda to find all the blankets and jackets I could. The road was pretty well gone. As I passed the

  commune, I watched one of the little huts slide several feet toward the sea on a pillow of mud. The commune residents, soaking wet, with their pathetic little bundles of worldly possessions, were moving out.

  The hacienda was deserted when I got there, and, in the storm, the electricity, predictably, was out. I stood in the doorway, almost too frightened to enter for a moment or two. I could hear the waves crashing on the dunes not that far away, imagined ghostly whispers as the rain swept in sheets across the courtyard. Shutters banged intermittently against the walls.

  Resolutely, I took a flashlight from the truck and made my way across the courtyard, now awash, and up the stairs. I could hear water dripping everywhere. As fast as I could, wanting only to get away from the place, I grabbed my sweater, waterproof jacket, and the blanket off my bed, then went into Tracey’s room. She’d told me to take whatever I thought we could use, and, setting the flashlight on the dresser, I rifled through her closet, tossing jackets and sweaters on the bed as I did so. Grabbing them up, arms aching from all that had happened, I turned to go.