No sooner had we stepped past the filthy night guard, however, than the young Tupac whirled around quickly and grabbed the man from behind and twisted his head, breaking his neck in an instant. The guard’s body slumped in its chair. I winced at the sheer violence of the act, but strangely, I found that I felt little sympathy for the guard. I had made my decision—had pledged my allegiance to the enemy—and there was no turning back now.
My young companion quickly took the guard’s rifle and his pistallo—or “pistol” as some of my countrymen were now calling them—and, last of all, his keys. Tupac then affixed a stone weight to the dead guard’s foot and dropped the body into the river.
In the pale blue moonlight, we crossed the rickety wooden footbridge and entered the hulk.
The interior guard leapt to his feet as we entered the cage room but Tupac was far too quick for him. He fired his pistol at the guard without missing a step. The explosion of the gunshot in the enclosed space of the prison hulk was deafening. Prisoners all around us awoke with a start at the sudden terrifying sound.
Renco was already on his feet as we came to his cage.
The guard’s key fitted perfectly in the lock of his cell and the door opened easily. The prisoners all around us were shouting and banging on the bars of their cages, pleading to be released. My eyes darted around in every direction and in the midst of all this uproar, I saw a sight that chilled me to my very core.
I saw the Chanca, Castino, standing in his cell—standing perfectly still—staring at me intently.
His cage now open, Renco ran over to the dead guard’s corpse, grabbed his weapons and handed them to me.
“Come on,” he said, awakening me from Castino’s hypnotic stare. Dressed only in the barest of prison rags, Renco quickly began to undress the dead guard’s corpse. Then he hurriedly put on the guard’s thick leather riding jacket, pantaloons and boots.
No sooner was he dressed than he was on his feet again, unlocking some of the other cages. I noticed that he only unlocked the cages of Incan warriors and not those of prisoners from subjugated tribes like the Chancas.
And then suddenly Renco was dashing out the door with a rifle in his hand, ignoring the shouts of the other prisoners, and calling for me to follow.
We dashed back across the rickety footbridge, amid a crowd of running prisoners. By this time, however, others had heard the commotion on board the hulk. Four Spaniards from the nearby tent village arrived at the riverbank on horseback just as we leapt off the bridge. They fired at us with their muskets, the reports of their weapons booming like thunderclaps in the night.
Renco fired back, handling his musket like the most seasoned Spanish infantryman, blasting one of the horsemen from his mount. The other Incan prisoners ran ahead of us and overpowered two of the other horsemen.
The last horseman brought his steed around so that it stood directly in front of me. In a flashing instant, I saw him register my appearance—a European helping these heathens. I saw the anger flare in his eyes and then I saw him raise his rifle in my direction.
With nothing else to call on, I hastily raised my own pistol and fired it. The pistol boomed loudly in my hand and I would swear on the Good Book itself that its recoil almost tore my arm from its socket. The horseman in front of me snapped backward in his saddle and tumbled to the ground, dead.
I stood there, stunned, holding the pistol in my hand, staring fixedly at the dead body on the ground. I endeavored to convince myself that I had done no wrong. He had been going to kill me—
“Brother!” Renco called suddenly.
I turned on the moment and saw him sitting astride one of the Spanish horses. “Come!” he called. “Take his horse! We have to get to Cuzco!”
The city of Cuzco lies at the head of a long mountain valley that runs in a north—south direction. It is a walled city that is situated between two parallel rivers, the Huatanay and the Tullumayo, which act rather like moats.
Situated on a hill to the north of the city, towering above it, is the most dominant feature of the Cuzco valley. There, looking down over the city like a god, is the stone fortress of Sacsayhuaman.
Sacsayhuaman is a structure like no other I have seen in all of the world. Nothing in Spain, or even in the whole of Europe, can compare with its size and sheer dominating presence.
Truly, it is a most fearsome citadel—roughly pyramidal in shape, it consists of three colossal tiers, each one easily a hundred hands high, with walls constructed of gigantic hundred-ton blocks.
These Incans do not have mortar, but they more than make up for that deficiency with their extraordinary abilities in the art of stonemasonry. Rather than bind stones together with pastes, they build all of their fortresses, temples and palaces by fashioning enormous boulders into regular shapes and placing them alongside each other so that each boulder fits perfectly with the next. So exact are the joins between these monumental stones, so perfectly are they cut, that one cannot slip a knife blade between them.
It was in this setting that the intriguing siege of Cuzco took place.
Now, it is at this point that it should be said that the siege of Cuzco must rank as one of the strangest in the history of modern warfare.
The strangeness of the siege stems from the following fact: during it the invaders—my countrymen, the Spaniards—were inside the city walls, while the owners of the city, the Incan people, were positioned outside the city walls.
In other words, the Incans were laying siege to their own city.
To be fair, this situation came about as the result of a long and complicated chain of events. In 1533, my Spanish countrymen rode into Cuzco unopposed and, at first, they were friendly to the Incans. It was only when they began to perceive the full extent of the riches within the city walls that any pretense of civility vanished.
My countrymen pillaged Cuzco with a frenzy never before witnessed. Native men were brutally enslaved. Native women were ravaged. Gold was melted down by the wagonload—after which time the Incans began calling my Spanish countrymen “gold-eaters.” Apparently, they thought that my countrymen’s insatiable lust for gold stemmed from our need to eat it.
By 1535, the Sapa Inca—Renco’s brother, Manco Capac—who had until that time been conciliatory in nature toward my countrymen, fled the capital for the mountains and assembled an enormous army with which he planned to retake Cuzco.
The Incan army—100,000 strong, but armed only with sticks and clubs and arrows—descended upon the city of Cuzco in a fury and they took Sacsayhuaman, the massive stone citadel overlooking the city, in a day. The Spaniards took refuge inside the city walls.
And so the siege began.
It would last for three months.
Nothing on this earth could have prepared me for the sight that I beheld when I rode through the enormous stone toll-gates at the northern end of the Cuzco valley.
It was night, but it might as well have been day. Fires burned everywhere, both within the city walls and without. It looked like Hell itself.
The largest force of men I have ever seen filled the valley before me, an undulating mass of humanity pouring down from the citadel on the hill toward the city—100,000 Incans, all of them on foot, shouting and screaming and waving torches and weapons. They had the entire city surrounded. Inside the city walls, fires could be seen ravaging the stone buildings situated there.
Renco rode ahead of me, right into the seething mass of people, and like the Red Sea for Moses, the crowd parted for him.
And as it did so, an enormous roar went up from the Incans, a cheer of rejoicing, a shout of such fervor and celebration that it made the hairs on my neck stand on end.
It was as if they had all recognized Renco instantly—despite the fact that he was dressed in Spanish clothing—and stood aside for him. It was as if every single one of them knew of his mission and would do their utmost to allow him every possible haste in effecting it.
Renco and I charged through the teeming mass of people, gal
loping at tremendous speed as the hordes of cheering In-cans opened up before us and urged us on.
We dismounted near the base of the mighty fortress Sacsayhuaman and walked quickly through a crowd of Indian warriors.
As we walked through the Incan ranks, I saw that numerous stakes had been driven into the ground all around us. Mounted on top of the stakes were the bloodied heads of Spanish soldiers. On some stakes, the entire bodies of captured Spaniards had been impaled. Their heads and feet had been hacked off. I walked quickly, mindful to stay close behind my friend Renco.
Then all at once, the crowd in front of us parted and I saw, standing before me at one of the entrances to the giant stone fortress, an Indian dressed in a most glorious manner. He wore a dazzling red cape and a gold-plated necklace and on his head sat a magnificent jewel-encrusted crown. He was surrounded by an entourage of at least twenty warriors and attendants.
It was Manco. The Sapa Inca.
Manco embraced Renco and they exchanged words in Quechuan, the Incans’ language. Renco later translated it for me thus:
“Brother,” said the Sapa Inca. “We were anxious as to your whereabouts. We heard that you had been captured, or worse, killed. And you are the only one who is permitted to enter the vault and rescue the—”
“Yes, brother, I know,” said Renco. “Listen, we have no time. I must enter the city now. Has the river entrance been used yet?”
“No,” said Manco, “we have refrained from using it as you instructed, so as not to alert the gold-eaters of its existence.”
“Good,” said Renco. He hesitated before he spoke again. “I have another question.”
“What is it?”
“Bassario,” said Renco. “Is he inside the city walls?”
“Bassario?” Manco frowned. “Well, I . . . I do not know . . .”
“Was he in the city when it fell?”
“Well, yes.”
“Where was he?”
“Why, he was in the peasant prison,” said Manco. “Where he has been for the past year. Where he belongs. Why? What need have you of a fiend like Bassario?”
“Let it not concern you now, brother,” said Renco. “For it will matter for nothing if I do not find the idol first”
Just then there came an almighty commotion from somewhere behind us and both Renco and I turned.
What I saw filled my heart with unimaginable horror: a column of Spanish soldiers—no fewer than three hundred of them, resplendent in their forged silver armor and distinctive pointed helmets—came charging into the valley from the northern tollgates, their muskets firing. Their horses were covered in heavy silver plating and, thus protected, the mounted Spanish troops cut a swath through the ranks of the Incan warriors in front of them.
As I watched the column of conquistadors hack their way through the Incan ranks, trampling the Indians before them, I beheld two of the riders near the head of the procession, both of whom I recognized. The first was the Captain, Hernando Pizarro, the Governor’s brother and a most cruel man. His distinctive black mustache and unkempt woolly beard were visible even from where I stood, four hundred paces away.
The second horseman was a figure whom I recognized with some degree of dread. Indeed, so much so that I took a second glance at him. But my worst fears were confirmed.
It was Castino.
The brutish Chanca who had been in the San Vicente with Renco. Only now he rode with his hands unmanacled—free—alongside Hernando.
And then all at once I understood.
Castino must have overheard my conversations with Renco . . .
He was leading Hernando to the vault inside the Coricancha.
Renco knew this, too. “By the gods,” said he. He turned with haste to his brother. “I must go. I must go now”
“Speed to you, brother,” said Manco.
Renco nodded curtly to the Sapa Inca and then turned to me and said in Spanish, “Come. We must hurry.”
We left the Sapa Inca and hastened around to the south side of the city, the side furthest from Sacsayhuaman. As we did so, I saw Hernando and his horsemen charge in through the city’s northern gate.
“Where are we going?” I inquired as we strode quickly through the angry crowd.
‘To the lower river,” was all my companion said in reply.
At length, we came to the river which ran alongside the southern wall of the city. I looked up at the wall on the other side of the stream and saw Spanish soldiers armed with muskets and swords walking the ramparts, silhouetted by the orange light of the fires burning behind them.
Renco strode purposefully toward the river and, to my great surprise, stepped boots-and-all straight into the water.
“Wait!” I cried. “Where are you going?”
“Down there,” said he, indicating the body of water.
“But I . . . I can’t. I can’t go in there with you.”
Renco gripped my arm firmly.” My friend Alberto, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you have done, what you have risked to allow me to complete my mission. But now I must hurry if I am to succeed in my quest. Join me, Alberto. Stay with me. Complete my mission with me. Look at these people. While you are with me, you are a hero to them. But while you are not, you are just another gold-eater who must be killed. And now I must go. I cannot stay behind with you. If you stay here, I will not be able to help you. Come with me, Alberto. Dare to live.”
I looked at the Incan warriors behind me. Even with their primitive sticks and clubs, they still looked fierce and dangerous. I saw a Spanish soldier’s head on a stake nearby, its mouth open in a grotesque yawn.
“I think I will go with you,” said I, turning and stepping waist-deep into the water next to him.
“All right, then. Take a deep breath,” said he, “and follow me.
And with that Renco held his breath and disappeared under the water. I shook my head and, despite myself, took a deep breath and followed him under the surface.
Silence.
The chants and shouts of the Incan hordes were gone now.
In the darkness of the murky river I followed Renco’s kicking feet into a circular stone pipe that was set into the underwater wall of the city.
It was difficult to pull myself through the submerged cylindrical tunnel, its confines were so narrow. And it seemed to go on for an eternity. But then, just when it seemed as if my lungs would burst, I saw the end of the pipe and the rippling waves of the surface beyond it and I pulled myself harder through the water toward them.
I arose inside an underground sewer of some kind, lit by flaming torches mounted on the walls. I was standing waist-deep in water. Damp stone walls surrounded me. Square-shaped stone tunnels stretched away into the darkness. The foul stench of human feces filled the air.
Renco was already wading through the water away from me, toward a junction in the tunnel system. I hurried after him.
Through the tunnels we went. Left then right, left then right—thus we made our way hastily through the underground labyrinth. Never once did Renco seem lost or doubtful—he just turned into each tunnel with confidence and purpose.
And then all at once he stopped and stared up at the stone ceiling above us.
I just stood behind him, perplexed. I could see no difference between this tunnel and any of the other half-dozen that we had just come through.
And then for some reason unknown to myself, Renco ducked underneath the foul-smelling water. Moments later, he came up with a rock the size of a man’s fist. Then he climbed up out of the water and stood astride the narrow ledge that lined the tunnel and with his newfound rock began to hit the underside of one of the stone slabs that formed the ceiling of the tunnel.
Bang-bang. Bang.
Renco waited for a moment. Then he repeated the same sequence.
Bang-bang. Bang.
It was a code of some sort. Renco stepped back down into the water and we both stared up at the wet stone ceiling in silence, waiting for something to happen
.
Nothing happened.
We kept waiting. As we did so, I noticed a small symbol carved into the corner of the stone slab that Renco had been assailing. It was a carving of a circle, with a double “V” inscribed within it.
And then all of a sudden—boom-boom, boom—a series of muffled whumps could be heard from the other side of the ceiling. Someone repeating Renco’s code.
Renco sighed with relief. Then he stood up on the ledge again and pounded out a new sequence of thumps.
Moments later, the whole square-shaped section of the ceiling slid away, grinding loudly against its neighbors, revealing a dark, cavernlike space above us.
Renco immediately climbed up out of the water and disappeared into the hole in the ceiling. I followed.
I came up inside a most splendid room, an enormous vault-like chamber, lined on all four sides with magnificent golden images. All four walls of the chamber were made of solid stone blocks, each one ten feet wide and probably as thick. There was no obvious door, except for a smaller stone—this one only six feet in height—set within one of the sturdy walls.
I was in the vault of the Coricancha.
A single flaming torch illuminated the cavernous space. It was held by a burly Incan warrior. Three other equally large warriors stood behind the torchbearer, glaring at me.
There was another person in the vault, however. An elderly woman, and she had eyes only for Renco.
She was a handsome woman, with gray hair and wrinkled skin, and I imagined that in her prime she must have been a strikingly beautiful woman. She was dressed simply, in a white cotton robe and a gold-and-emerald headdress. And I must say that in her simple white attire, she looked angelic, almost heavenly, like a priestess of some—
Boom!
I spun at the sudden noise. Renco did too.
Boom!
It seemed to come from the other side of the walls. Someone pounding on the outside of the stone door.
I froze in horror.
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