‘You seem very sure of that. You know as well as I do that to find it they’re capable of leaving no stone unturned in the whole of Peru.’
‘They’ll find nothing under every stone they turn,’ said Gabriel, still smiling. ‘We Spaniards can heap suffering on the peoples of this land. We can kill them and rob them. But look at that lake, Brother Bartholomew. Look at those mountains…’
Gabriel waved toward the slopes that, in the play of the light, seemed to dissolve into the pale blue sky at their peaks just as their bases melted into Titicaca’s cerulean depths.
‘It is indeed very fine,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And yet—’
‘No,’ interrupted Gabriel. ‘It’s not about beauty. All of what you see lives. Mountains, stones, water… everything here exists in a world parallel to our own, just like our own, and yet you and I don’t know how to see it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that the Incas can see the invisible. More than that, they know how to sense its breath and receive its support. They can sense life wherever it is, and however it manifests itself. It’s true that they’re no stronger than chickens under the sword’s iron blade; and, indeed, one day they may well be exterminated like chickens. But the essence of the land will remain: it will live on. Nothing will prevent the Incas from taking away their knowledge of the world that exists in the mountains, the stones, and this very lake – a world that we can neither see nor hear. There are forces at work here far more powerful than anything that any Pizarro can hope to command.’
This time Gabriel spoke with passion. Bartholomew had a sad and gloomy look in his eyes.
‘Well, that’s not a very Christian way of seeing the world. Gabriel, I’ve heard that since you’ve been here, you’ve been participating in the Indians’ pagan ceremonies.’
For a brief second, it looked as though Gabriel was going to lose his temper. But instead he laughed ironically and shook his head.
‘It doesn’t matter what people say about my life here. It suits me perfectly.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Are you starting an inquisition?’
‘I’m a man of God, Gabriel, and I’m your friend. But don’t imagine for a minute that I am willing to accept that you abandon and even, maybe, scorn the work of Christ, and the hope that it brings to each one of us!’
‘I will abandon my respect neither for mankind nor for life itself. That should be comfort enough for you.’
Bartholomew scrutinized Gabriel. Tension racked his emaciated face. Then, as though overcome by exhaustion, he nodded.
‘No doubt you’re right. But it’s a strange thing to admit.’
Gabriel put his hand on his friend’s arm.
‘I am at peace with myself, Brother Bartholomew. My soul is at peace.’
The monk shuddered feverishly. His lips began trembling violently. He shut his eyes and murmured:
‘I don’t doubt that your soul is at peace, dear Gabriel. But, alas, mine is not. Far from it. I am exhausted, and I think I’ll sleep a little now. But will you do me a favor? While I sleep, open those leather saddlebags. In them, you’ll find some pages I wrote. For the love of God, please read them.’
‘I won’t do it for the love of God, Brother Bartholomew. But for your friendship, certainly I will.’
* * *
Bartholomew didn’t emerge from his deep, deep sleep until nightfall. He opened his eyes and saw Gabriel sitting beside a brazier a few paces away. He was contemplating the lake and the mountains that were already veiled in darkness. On his knees he had a large leather case containing a bundle of sheets of paper covered in neat, compact handwriting.
‘Gabriel…’
Gabriel turned around and smiled. And yet, it seemed as though some of the shadows that he had been contemplating had remained in his eyes. Bartholomew pointed at the leather case and said:
‘Did you read it?’
‘I read it. There are so many horrors and injustices chronicled in these pages that the world it depicts could be Hell itself.’
‘And yet – and I can swear it to God – I have written only about those events at which I was personally present. I have written down everything that I have seen since setting foot here in Peru, omitting nothing. I have listed every injustice and humiliation inflicted on the Indians, every violation of the laws of God, of Rome, and of our own country. Everything!’
Gabriel looked down at the leather case, perplexed. Then he placed it at Bartholomew’s side.
‘Yes, everything. But you are reckless, dear Bartholomew. Should the Pizarro brothers or their friends find these papers, you’re a dead man.’
‘That’s precisely why I traveled only by night to get here,’ sighed Bartholomew.
Gabriel smiled, but his tone was serious when he said:
‘I’m afraid that it won’t be enough. Burn these pages, Bartholomew. Burn them now – in this brazier, right here. Or at least hide them somewhere very secure. They’re no use to you now in any case: who wants to read such depressing prose!’
Bartholomew sat up and uttered an enraged yelp. He crawled from his bed and grabbed the leather case, waving it over his head as he cried:
‘Burn them? Hide these truths from our King Charles who must be made aware of them? Spain must know what is happening here! Rome too will be horrified when the pope reads these pages!’
Gabriel shook his head, smiling sardonically.
‘Your fever has made you delirious, friend. Have you forgotten the gold? Do you really think that anyone across the ocean cares how it’s obtained? Do you imagine that any king or pope will cease covering their palaces in gold merely because the savages here are being ill-treated? Come now, Bartholomew! You know very well that Don Francisco and his brothers can continue playing the tyrant so long as they continue sending treasure back to Europe!’
‘You are mistaken! You are utterly mistaken, Gabriel!’
Bartholomew stood up unsteadily. His indignant cries were so impassioned that two servant girls and Chillioc, who was carrying a torch, came rushing in. Gabriel nodded to them to calm them down while Bartholomew, beside himself, grabbed hold of Gabriel’s hands and continued to shout:
‘No! No! I will not have you say such things! Not you, Gabriel! There are good men in Spain, there are men of good will in Rome! There are good men at Court and in the Church! There are men who believe that the Indians are children of God just as we are!’
‘Perhaps. But, alas, they are over there – not here.’
‘That’s why they must be told!’
‘And even if they knew…’
Beneath his bandages, Bartholomew looked demented. He blinked constantly, apparently involuntarily, and a thick vein pulsed visibly in his neck. He held himself as taut as a bow, and Gabriel was concerned that he was going to faint at any moment. But instead, the monk put his hands on Gabriel’s shoulders and spoke intently:
‘Listen to me, Gabriel. There is someone in Spain, a man of the Church, who is trying to ensure that all the people living here in these mountains are treated with respect, that they’re allowed to live with dignity. This man is a Dominican called Las Casas. He is the kind of educated man that you and I like and admire. He has read Erasmus—’
‘One man, Brother Bartholomew! He’s but one man alone, like you, like me. And he is so far from these mountains…’
‘No, he’s not as alone as you think. His influence is far-reaching. He has the ears of some important people. He has already managed to have Pope Paul III issue a papal bull declaring that all the Indians on earth be treated as humans…’
When he saw Gabriel’s sardonic smile, Bartholomew, grimacing with the effort it cost him, drew himself up to his full height, standing erect and shaking with rage. With his skeletal hand, he pointed at Gabriel’s servants standing at the back of the room, wide-eyed with incomprehension, and declaimed:
‘We consider that the Indians are truly men and that they are capable of understa
nding the Catholic Faith. We declare that, notwithstanding whatever may already have been said or may be said in future to the contrary, the said Indians are by no means to be deprived of their liberty or the possession of their property, even though they be outside the faith of Jesus Christ; and that they may and should, freely and legitimately, enjoy their liberty and the possession of their property; nor should they be in any way enslaved; and we declare that the said Indians and other peoples should be converted to the faith of Jesus Christ by the preaching of the word of God and by the example of good and holy living.’
Short of breath, his bandaged head nodding slightly, Bartholomew finished his declamation and grabbed young Chillioc, pushing him in front of Gabriel.
‘Such are the words and the will of the Holy Father! I swear, on this child’s head, that it is true. I swear it solemnly to Almighty God that the Sacred Office wants what we want!’
Gabriel reached out and stroked Chillioc’s terrified face.
‘Don’t be scared, Chillioc,’ he said in Quechua. ‘My friend is taken by fever. Help me put him back to bed.’
Bartholomew protested, but his exhaustion was stronger than his fury, and by now he could hardly stand. As the child and Gabriel urged him back to bed and pulled a blanket up over him, he asked in a broken voice:
‘Do you believe me, Gabriel?’
‘I believe you.’
‘Then take these pages to Spain. Take them to Las Casas. He needs them.’
Gabriel froze, taken aback.
The torchlight played on their faces, distorting them. Bartholomew’s bandages looked like a bizarre mask.
‘Me?’ Gabriel asked.
‘Who else but you has the will and the courage to do it? See how this child looks at you, Gabriel,’ insisted Bartholomew, taking Chillioc by the hands. ‘If you take these pages to Spain, then he will have a future as an adult.’
Seeing Gabriel frown and turn away, the monk continued:
‘What are you waiting for here? For Anamaya to come back to you? You know that it won’t happen like that. You are alone. You’re wasting your time here, contemplating the landscape of Titicaca while those you pretend to defend are being destroyed. Take these papers to Toledo, take the truth to where it will have the most effect. Who better than you to tell the King about this country? Help me, Gabriel. Not for the sake of God’s cause – I know that you’ve rejected Him. But for the cause that you cannot forget, and that fills your heart with sadness.’
Gabriel stared unblinkingly at the monk for some time and said nothing. But Bartholomew saw the look in his friend’s eyes, and he knew that his words had had their effect.
* * *
A milky dawn spread over Lake Titicaca. The morning fog dissolved into strands. In the gaps, the gray water of the lake could be seen, as well as the gray walls lining the terraces. At the bottom of the large bay facing the sacred islands of the Sun and Moon, a few plumes of smoke rose from the houses of Cusijata.
Gabriel stood halfway down a steep rocky hillock that jutted out into the lake and admired the enchanted place one last time. It was the only place where he had managed to find peace since that March day in 1532 when, after having almost perished in the South Sea, and accompanied by Sebastian, he had first stepped onto the beach at Tumbez, one of the first conquistadors to set foot on Inca land.
That had been seven years ago, almost to the day. Seven years of hope, of battles – sometimes of glory. Almost seven years of love. And yet, in those seven years, so little happiness, just a few fleeting moments stolen from the war and the tragedy.
Anamaya! Even just whispering the word to the gentle morning breeze made Gabriel’s body tremble as though the entire surface of his skin was being tattooed with his beloved’s magical name: Anamaya!
And now he was going to return to Spain an entirely different man from the one who had left it seven years before. He was going to go back to Spain without looking back, without even kissing Anamaya’s lips one last time. He was going to leave and slowly forget the smell of her skin, the warmth of her thighs. His memories of her guiding him on voyages into the strangeness of the world were going to slip irretrievably away.
Gabriel couldn’t believe that he could do it.
But the monk’s words had harrowed his soul throughout the night. They had been reasonable and utterly persuasive words, despite Bartholomew’s overexcited state. Gabriel had tried to turn a deaf ear to them as best he could, but to no avail. And then, suddenly, other words had come into his mind, words spoken by Anamaya. They were words that she had addressed to the ‘Puma’ and that had carried the incredible and bizarre message of a long-dead Inca emperor:
You will see the Puma; he will bound here from across the ocean.
He will only come to you when he leaves you.
Although separated, you will be united as one,
And when everyone has left, you will remain, and the Puma will remain at your side.
Together, like your ancestors Manco Capac and Mama Occlo,
You will beget new life on earth.
They were words that he had heard but had not understood, words locked in his mind the way a mystery is held in a strongbox. But now the meaning of the words became crystal clear to him: yes, he had to leave. At last, he understood how he was going to get back to Anamaya: not by diving into Lake Titicaca, but by crossing the ocean, by going back to Spain, by surrendering to what appeared to be a coincidence but that was in fact his destiny – a destiny bestowed upon him unwittingly by Bartholomew. Bartholomew, he realized, was the servant of the Inca Ancestors as much as he was a servitor of Christ!
A sound of something moving in the bushes startled Gabriel out of his thoughts. He turned around but saw nothing. Then Chillioc emerged hesitantly from a clump of foliage. He seemed reluctant even to look Gabriel in the eyes.
Gabriel smiled tenderly and held out his hand.
‘Come here, Chillioc.’
The child placed his little hand in the Stranger’s, and Gabriel had him sit down at his side.
‘You should be sleeping,’ he reprimanded the boy affectionately.
‘I couldn’t. I saw that you were awake, and I followed you.’
Gabriel squeezed the boy’s hand. They sat together in silence, watching the fog’s slow dance over the lake.
‘Are you going away, Lord Gabriel?’
‘What makes you ask?’ said Gabriel, surprised.
‘I saw it in your face when you were talking with the sick Stranger.’
‘Yes, I’m going away, Chillioc. You saw right. I’m going to miss you.’
‘Why do you want to leave? Aren’t you happy here with us?’
‘I am happy,’ said Gabriel, smiling ‘Very happy.’
‘Well then?’
‘Well, it’s time that I leave and return to someone. And there’s something I must do.’
The child looked at him, his eyes full of sadness and incomprehension.
‘If you leave,’ whispered Chillioc, ‘the Strangers who hate us will come here. Everyone will be so frightened.’
‘That’s one of the reasons why I’m leaving,’ said Gabriel, his voice tight with emotion. ‘So that you’ll never again be frightened of Strangers.’
‘Do you think that’s possible?’ asked the child, wide-eyed.
‘Perhaps. I don’t know. But I do know that it’s impossible to live without trying to make it so.’
CHAPTER 22
Vilcabamba, June 1539
‘I love being in your presence, Sacred Double,’ whispered Anamaya. ‘I’ve been your wife for ten years now, enough time for the four seasons to alternate the heat and the cold of our world ten times. Ten times has another year been added to the distance between now and the day of my birth. I was a child when Emperor Atahualpa ordered me to accompany you for ever, to become the Coya Camaquen. Now I’m a woman older than Emperor Manco’s wives and concubines. And yet when I’m with you I feel as though time passes without touching us.’
> Anamaya smiled tenderly. She was squatting on her heels at the gold statue’s side. The Sacred Double had been set in front of the Great Temple of the Sun at Vilcabamba on a stela built by Katari. She spread the offerings at his feet, as she had done a thousand times before: honey, fruit, river fish and young corn. Then, adhering to strict ritual, she scattered coca leaves on the embers glowing in a painted bowl shaped like the serpent Amaru.
Oh beloved husband, she thought, bowing to the statue, accept these offerings brought to you by your devoted Coya Camaquen.
The bitter, dry smoke rising from the coca leaves plumed upwards, slowly twisting around the gold statue in a long and lazy caress before vanishing into the morning haze of a new and warm day.
The little city in the middle of the jungle gleamed resplendently in the dawn, as it had done every morning since the rainy season had ended. Beyond the tip of the Sacred Stone to which the sun hitched itself each daybreak, the great ceremonial square and the walls lining the terraces abutting the royal canchas emerged from the opulent jungle. Soon the maze of alleys, flights of steps and bridges would in turn emerge from the shadows. Not a day passed when Anamaya didn’t admire the perfect harmony of the city’s design, a design that Katari seemed to have created out of nothing, as if by magic. The temples, the houses of aristocrats and common people alike, and the warehouses were so well proportioned and laid out in the jungle that if one walked only a quarter of an hour from Vilcabamba, it disappeared from sight like a mirage.
‘I love your company, Sacred Double,’ continued Anamaya quietly, ‘it calms me and fills me with hope: I feel that Emperor Huayna Capac protects us through you, protects us while war rages all around us, destroying everything. For a long time, Sacred Double, I didn’t know how to love you, or even how to hear you. I was too young. I feared you. I feared your silence and your body made of gold. I feared my duties as your wife. I feared the wisdom that your presence gave me: it infuriated the Powerful Lords and filled them with jealousy.’
The Light of Machu Picchu Page 24