The Seven Serpents Trilogy

by Scott O'Dell

  “You pine for gold,” he said, speaking with the arrogance of a god. “I will give it to you. I will fill this room from wall to wall and to the ceiling with gold.”

  Pizarro had unsheathed his sword. He put it back in the scabbard. “You’ll fill this place?”

  “Full,” the Inca said.

  Pizarro glanced around the room, which was some six paces in width and eight or nine in length. “How high?” he said.

  “High,” the Inca said, “higher than you, higher even than the young man who speaks for you.” He made a mark on the wall that nearly reached the ceiling. “This high.”

  “You wish something in return,” Pizarro said. “What?”

  “My freedom,” Atahualpa answered.

  “It’s a trick,” Valverde said. “Beware.”

  “Agreed,” Pizarro said at once. “You are a free man the hour this room is filled with gold. But not a moment sooner.”

  Before we left him, Atahualpa had passed word of the pact to his servants. By nightfall dozens were on their way in all directions—to the treasure house of Titicata on the knife’s edge of the Andes, to the gardens at Quito and Pachácamac and Xauxa, to the palaces of Arequipa and Coricaucha, to the Temple of the Virgins in the sacred city of Cuzco.

  They returned slowly, too slowly for Pizarro’s wishes, like a column of ants, throughout the summer, along with dozens of other servants recruited on the way, burdened under heavy loads, leading strings of llamas also burdened. They filled the room with gold from the floor to the mark Atahualpa had made on the wall. It consisted of utensils for ordinary use, dining plates, golden tiles from palace roofs, lordly earrings and ceremonial crowns, graceful statues of animals and birds, collars and necklaces, fretted figurines of the greatest delicacy.

  CHAPTER 27

  THE CONQUISTADORES CHEERED AND DRANK TOASTS TO ATAHUALPA Capac, Emperor of Peru. I did neither, for from the very beginning, from the moment Pizarro had said, “You are a free man the hour this room is filled with gold,” I doubted that he would ever honor his promise. The perfidies of Hernán Cortés were still fresh in my mind.

  My doubts were well based. Days passed and Atahualpa remained a prisoner. A week passed. Rumors spread that thousands of Indians were massed around Guamachucho, a large town to the south, sharpening their obsidian knives, pray ing for the Inca’s return. At other towns farther away, it was said, even greater numbers had gathered.

  De Soto and a band of horsemen were sent to search out the truth. Patrols were doubled. Horses were kept saddled and bridled. Soldiers slept on their arms. The general himself made the rounds at night to see that every sentinel was at his post.

  Pizarro didn’t wait for de Soto’s return. In an angry mood he limped off to confront Atahualpa, taking me with him as usual, and to make certain that the talk was correctly translated, his other interpreter, Little Philip.

  It had rained through the night and was raining hard now as we crossed the square. We all were dripping water when we broke in upon the emperor.

  He was eating breakfast, seated in a nest of red cushions, dressed in a black gown, soft looking as satin, made from the silky undersides of bat wings. Two musicians with flutes and one with a cymbal were playing a lively little tune.

  At our sudden appearance the music stopped. Atahualpa glanced up and, surprised, upset a drink into his lap. A bevy of servants rushed out, set up a screen in front of him, and behind it changed him into a fresh gown, while Pizarro strode back and forth, his anger increasing.

  At last the stained gown was taken away—the emperor’s used clothes were always burned, never washed or worn again—and the gold screen removed. He didn’t rise to greet us, but sat gazing out at the rain falling in the square, his heavy-lidded eyes serene.

  The general started to speak, then changed his mind and stood awkwardly with his hands dangling, unsure of himself. He was no longer Pizarro, Governor General of Peru, come to upbraid a culprit. His anger had vanished. Again he was the pig boy face to face with an emperor.

  “I have not been freed,” Atahualpa said. “Are you here to keep a promise?”

  “There are reasons,” Pizarro said, slurring his words, falling silent as if he had forgotten what they were.

  “For a valiant man not to keep promises,” Atahualpa said, “for this there can be no reasons. So I do not wish to hear them. They will sicken my stomach.”

  He whispered to a servant, who whispered to the musicians, and they began to play a sad little piece of tinkling notes. A servant held a gold box before him, and he took out a reddish brown nut and put it in his mouth, beside his tongue.

  “Is this what comes of being a Christian man?” he said. “A breaker of promises? Is this what is taught in the book you call the Bible? Does your friend Christ teach you this?”

  Pizarro flushed.

  “As he has taught you to slay people for him,” the emperor added. “Nine thousand of my young men, most of them with wives and children, slain to please him. Is this what your god wishes of you? Is this the path to the heaven your Father Valverde speaks about and wishes me to take?”

  He turned toward Pizarro and fixed upon him the gaze of a child who has been wronged.

  Pizarro avoided his eyes and said uneasily, “You are plot ting against me, me the governor general of Peru, your friend, who has treated you with honor. Who has believed in you as in a brother.”

  The emperor must have been astounded by this remark, but his expression never changed when he said to me, “Tell Gen eral Pizarro that he jests. He is always jesting with Atahualpa. How could I or my people plot against men as valiant as the Spaniards?”

  The musicians had filled the room with a sudden burst of melody, which drowned out my words. Pizarro asked me to repeat them. Halfway through the translation, Little Philip burst in. He sidled up to the general.

  “This devil shocks me,” he said, “with his threats against you.”

  “Threats?” Pizarro said. “What threats?”

  “He says that his soldiers plan to kill you. Soon. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  Felipillo had been caught in the women’s quarters a few days before, busily molesting one of the girls. Hearing of the escapade, Atahualpa had threatened to kill him. This was his way of repaying the emperor.

  Little Philip had a large gap between two of his big front teeth. When planning skullduggery, he had a habit of pushing his tongue back and forth through the gap. He was doing this now, gauging how far he dare go with the general.

  “Yes, the devil has bad things in his mind. Bad…”

  I stopped Felipillo’s lies by giving him a clout that sent him into a corner where he lay blinking.

  Word for word I repeated what Atahualpa had said, but Pizarro was annoyed with me and did not listen. He wanted to believe Little Philip’s lies, for they proved that the Inca was really plotting his destruction. He limped over and put Little Philip back on his feet.

  “What else did the devil say?” Pizarro asked him.

  “Much more,” Little Philip whispered, “but now my head hurts and I cannot think.”

  Atahualpa said to Pizarro, “Am I not a captive in your hands? How could I harbor a plot when I would be the first victim of an outbreak? You little know my people if you think that such would be made without my orders. When the very birds in my dominions would scarcely venture to fly contrary to my will.”

  Silence fell between the two men. Pizarro was again the outcast, uncomfortable in the presence of royalty. He fiddled with his sword, drew it out of the scabbard, and put it back. The gesture was unconscious, something he often did, but Atahualpa took it as a threat. A shadow passed over his face. At that moment he must have seen a dark gulf opening at his feet.

  No more was said. Pizarro went out, taking Little Philip by the hand. At the door the Indian turned and shouted back at the emperor, “You won’t live long enough to kill Little Philip. You have a pretty daughter, Inca. But she’s not ugly like you. She must be someone else’s daughter
. Not yours, ugly Inca.” He spat at the emperor through the gap in his teeth.

  “If Atahualpa does not live long enough to kill you,” I said, “and if you ever go near the women again, I’ll kill you myself.”

  Halfway through the door that opened onto the square, Lit tle Philip paused to spit at me. I let him go. I watched the two dodge through the gusts of rain arm in arm and disappear.

  I had started after them during a lull in the rain when I caught something on the air that reminded me of a night flower I had once smelled before—was it the scent that Chima had worn?—and I heard close behind me the rustle of a dress. Turning, I saw her standing in the doorway. Her face was pale, almost hidden in a cloud of unkempt hair. She had been crying.

  “I listened while you were talking,” she said. “I heard my father say that the very birds in his dominions would scarcely venture to fly against his will. It was a boast, and he believes it is true—about the birds and also his people—but deep down in his heart he is afraid. He walks the floor at night. He does not sleep.”

  I was painfully aware that I had no words to comfort her. I might be able to hide my belief that he was a doomed man. Little else.

  “You know Pizarro,” she said. “You are friends.”

  He has no friends, was on my tongue to say. He listens to no one. Not even to God. He pretends to, but he doesn’t.

  I took her hand, which was cold.

  “You know him,” she said. “Perhaps you can talk to him about my father and tell Pizarro that he is a good man who is loved by his people. And by me, Chima, his daughter.”

  “I will talk to Alvarado. He’s a friend of your father. And to others. And to…” A clap of thunder and a burst of rain scattered my words.

  She brushed her hair back from her face. “To the man who dresses in a gown and carries the thing that my father threw in the dirt?”

  “To Valverde also.”

  “And say to him that my father regrets this. My father will not say so, but he does. He has respect for the gods of other people, like the Xiux people who worship the moon. He thinks they are crazy, but he says nothing much and he does not kill them.”

  She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. She looked out at me from the big doorway.

  “You are standing in the rain,” she said.

  Suddenly I realized that, yes, I stood in the rain. It was pouring down. It dripped from the peak of my cap and splashed against my legs. The skies had opened up on me.

  “You will get drowned soon,” she said. “Or get yourself struck upon the head by a lightning bolt. In my country the lightning is fierce. It strikes many people. And they drown many times, too.”

  “Will you save a drowning man,” I said, “who has already been struck by lightning?”

  There were only a few short steps to the doorway, between Chima and me. Shyly, she held out her arms.

  CHAPTER 28

  PIZARRO GAVE A FATAL TWIST TO THE ROPE HE HAD PLACED AROUND Atahualpa’s neck.

  At noon of that day, deeming it wise to have an instant trial and to give it the look of fairness, he called his officers together, appointed from their ranks a prosecutor, a counsel for the pris oner, and two judges.

  Atahualpa was charged with the crime of killing his half brother, Huáscar, with treason against the king of Spain, with having a multitude of wives, with idolatry, with inciting insurrection, and with other dastardly acts—twelve in all.

  In a hollow voice Pizarro cautioned everyone against hastiness. Father Valverde swore them to speak the truth on pain of death. Witnesses were called according to the rules of law.

  Several Indians, friends of the Inca, testified that he had never plotted against the Spaniards, that he admired them as brave men. But their words, filtered through Little Philip’s poisonous tongue, took on a hostile meaning. Soldiers who had stood guard over Atahualpa during his imprisonment swore they had heard him make threats against Pizarro’s life. Only four of those in the room objected to the trial. Alvarado rose to say that the Inca should be sent to Spain and tried be fore the royal audiencia. Three of the officers agreed with him.

  A secretary carefully took down every word. All the testi mony was to be sent to Spain as clear proof to King Carlos that the trial had been conducted under the rules of law.

  I expected to testify, since I had done some of the translat ing between Pizarro and Atahualpa. I was not called. The judges got to their feet. They were filing out to decide on the fate of Atahualpa as I held up my hand and shouted, “Wait!”

  Silence fell upon the room that, through the hour the trial lasted, had been loud with chatter, comings and goings. The secretary put aside his pen and began to sharpen another. The judges paused to listen, but Father Valverde herded them out side and slammed the door. He came to where I stood and placed a forefinger on my chest.

  “The trial is over,” he said.

  “I have a statement to make.”

  “No statements,” Valverde said. “The trial is finished.” “Then I’ll make a statement to the king.”

  I asked the secretary, a pale-nosed youth, if he was ready to take down what I was about to say. He sliced on the gray eagle plume, glanced at the officers, then at Pizarro to make sure that they had no objections, then at Father Valverde.

  “Statement!” Valverde gasped. “To the king?”

  “To the king,” I said. “I wish him to know that only one crime was committed and that it was not committed by Ata hualpa.”

  Valverde wagged his scanty locks. “Nonsense,” he cried.

  The secretary put down his pen.

  Valverde was still close to me, his forefinger pressing on my chest. He came closer and spoke in a whisper.

  “The ring you wear,” he said, “the bishop’s ring you have there on your finger. How did you come by it?”

  I was not taken aback by his question. From the hour we had met, not a day went by that I hadn’t looked for it.

  “Dicing,” I said.

  “With whom?”

  “A professional gambler. A very clever gentleman.”

  “When?”

  “Years ago, Father, in my early youth. When I was a gam bler myself.”

  “You are still a gambler,” Valverde said. “You gamble now. And with another experienced gambler. But now you dice for higher stakes. Your life, my friend, your life!”

  While we glared at each other, the judges, gone scarcely long enough to be seated, filed back. They brought with them a verdict of guilty on all counts and the suggestion that Atahualpa be burned at the stake before the day came to an end.

  The emperor was taken back to his quarters. Soon after ward, on the pretense that I was carrying a message from Val verde, I slipped past the guards. I found Atahualpa on his knees, gazing at a set of blue stone pebbles he had arranged in an odd pattern on the floor.

  “Inca Capac,” I said, “listen closely.”

  The emperor did not look up, but kept his gaze fixed on the blue stones.

  “When you leave this room, turn to the right and follow the passage beyond the main gate that is guarded. There are three turnings—as you know—all toward your right hand. This passage leads to the women’s quarters. Yesterday I saw this passage, just as I have described it to you. Once you are with the women, they will find a place to hide you. By tomorrow or the day following, I’ll find you a means of escape.”

  It was a desperate chance.

  Atahualpa said nothing. He shifted the stones around to a different pattern. Then he glanced up at me and said, “The blue stones speak the end of my days.”

  In his eyes I saw the same veiled look I had seen in the eyes of Moctezuma on the day Cortés condemned him to death—the same Indian look of resignation. Without further words I left him.

  Two hours after sunset, by torchlight, the Spanish army as sembled in the great square. Atahualpa was led out by Father Valverde. It had begun to rain. The faggots collected for the fire burned slowly.

  The emperor was boun
d to a stake and the fire pushed closer. He glanced at those gathered around him, at Pizarro and Vincente de Valverde, at the dark sky. He closed his eyes then and stood in a trance.

  Father Valverde spoke to him through the small voice of Little Philip, saying that if he would renounce the faith of his fathers and become a Christian, he would be spared the tortures of the fire that burned beside him and those of ever lasting hell.

  Atahualpa mumbled a reply—a few words that Little Philip embroidered at such length that I couldn’t make head or tail of them. Valverde, taking it as a sign that the Inca had embraced the faith, ordered his fate changed from death by burning to the more merciful death of strangulation.

  Valverde raised an ebony cross and in a soft voice gave the emperor the new name of Juan de Atahualpa. A stout rope was placed about his neck.

  I was standing beside Pizarro, facing him in fact. I saw him watch closely as the rope was looped in back and a stick in serted in the loop and turned by two stout men.

  His expression didn’t change until the stick would not turn and he saw that the emperor no longer breathed. Then he raised his eyes to the sunless heavens, and there came over his face a look of utter bliss. The one man he envied, whose power he craved, whose courage outmatched his own, was dead. Francisco Pizarro—the bastard pig boy from the alleys of Seville, now Inca Pizarro, King of the Four Quarters, Lord of the Sharp Knives? Anything was possible in the land of Peru. He fell to his knees and, between quiet sobs, prayed.

  The officers prayed, too, and all the soldiers, thankful that a great danger had been lifted from their lives.

  No sounds came from the quarters where the women were watching, only a deep silence. But the next day, when the emperor’s body was placed in the church, the women and chil dren and servants burst forth, streaming across the square in a black tide.

  They were halted at the church doors by Father Valverde, who explained that since the emperor had died in the Christian faith, a Christian service was being held, and they could not enter. The women brushed him aside, broke through the door, and surged down the aisle, crying out that they wished to join the Inca in death.