The Gold Eaters

by Ronald Wright

  Having made this demand—a good one, he thinks, for how can these bandits ever fulfill it?—Atawallpa takes a fortifying swig from Hanku’s gilded skull. His attention then turns to a strange figure emerging from a doorway. Short-bearded, yet dressed more like a widow than a man. A black cloak and white undergarment flowing to its feet. A shaved patch on its crown, red with sunburn.

  Friar Valverde glides to Pizarro’s side, Bible and a document in hand.

  “I must read this heathen the Requirement now. Then you may strike with a conscience spotless in the sight of God.”

  Waman wishes Candía was beside him. The Old One and the priest unnerve him, make him feel callow and vulnerable, as indeed he is. Which should he fear more: Atawallpa or Pizarro? He looks at the rows of lords bearing the litter on their shoulders, sees Maytawillka among them, just below the Inca’s throne.

  Valverde begins to read:

  I, Commander Francisco Pizarro, vassal and envoy of the high and mighty Kings of Castile and León, conquerors of barbarous nations, hereby inform you that God Our Lord . . .

  The interpreter’s voice is reedy, faltering, as he struggles to translate the untranslatable.

  Atawallpa barely listens, drumming his fingers on the litter’s sill; then stopping Waman with a raised hand. He leans and speaks to Maytawillka. “The youth is ill-spoken. His accent gets thicker with each word. Make out what he’s saying as best you can. Give me the gist of it.” He pirouettes his hand for Waman to continue.

  “The interpreter is indeed floundering, Sapa Inka,” says Maytawillka after hearing more. “But it isn’t all his fault. The black-gown is babbling—barbarian fables and nonsense. He speaks of ‘one true god’ yet says this god is three—a father, a son, and a ghost. Or maybe that makes four.”

  “Have you seen this god of theirs?”

  “I have, my lord. They carry it around with them. An evil thing. A dead man nailed to a piece of wood.”

  Atawallpa hears the rest of Valverde’s speech in growing amazement.

  “Imagine, Maytawillka, a holy father called the Papa—the great Potato!” The Inca chuckles at his joke, a weak one in his cousin’s view, but Maytawillka gives a flattering smile. “And an emperor who lays claim to the whole Earth,” Atawallpa goes on, “because this Papa gave it to him? If such a ruler existed, would he send brigands like these as his ambassadors?”

  The Inca turns to Waman: “Tell him that the high priest of which he speaks has indeed been generous with others’ property. Only a madman gives away lands across the sea of which he knows nothing and that are not his.

  “As for the gods the black-gown speaks of, I shall repay his kindness by telling him of mine. Tell him I worship Pachakamaq, Maker of all Space and Time. And the living Sun who never dies, whose power I feel on my face each day. And the Sun’s sister and wife, the Moon. And the Earth, who is the mother of all living things. And all other gods and shrines throughout this land.”

  The Inca folds his arms and looks away; then, as he often does, he has an afterthought.

  “Ask the black-gown who told him such things. Where does he get such notions?”

  Valverde answers that they are written in the book of God.

  “These things are in the qillqa of their god,” Waman explains shakily. “That sh-sheaf of drawings he has in his hand. The outlanders draw their knots instead of tying them.”

  “I will see this.”

  Valverde holds out the Bible. It is taken respectfully by Maytawillka, who hands it up to the Inca.

  “This is the thing they value most, is it not?”

  “I believe so, my lord. Aside from gold.”

  Atawallpa smiles. Now is the time to repay the barbarians for their insult of last night. Then he will proceed to the top of the usnu and order Rumiñawi’s troops to come and seize them. He opens the book and riffles through it. The sheets are like other barbarian drawings Maytawillka brought from the coast. Sheets covered with marching ants.

  “How should I know what this says?” Atawallpa demands loudly, for all to hear. “This tells me nothing!”

  He slings the Bible high in the air.

  The book flutters like a shot pigeon and drops at the Spaniards’ feet.

  “Antichrist!” Valverde yells. “Lucifer! Antichrist! Christians, avenge the insult to our Holy Faith. I absolve you all. Santiago!”

  Pizarro waves the red kerchief and repeats the war cry: Santiago! A thunderclap sounds from the fort above the city.

  Several men in an Inca squadron fall to the ground, some writhing, others killed by grapeshot. A few of the wounded keep to their feet, clutching themselves in disbelief where roses of blood blossom on their uniforms. Already the horsemen are charging from the halls, slashing at the Peruvians with long blades, laying open bellies, severing arms and hands raised in hopeless defence. For a time the unarmed Peruvians hold formation as Spaniards scythe them down and war-dogs lunge at their throats. But soon the swaths are wide enough for the cavalry to manoeuvre, wheeling, hacking, trampling.

  Then panic is upon the square. Hundreds rush to the main gate, others to a narrow door in the new wall on the far side. So many pile up against the fresh adobe that it falls outward under their weight. Those who flee into the field beyond find no escape: horsemen vault bodies and rubble, spearing Peruvians as if hunting boar.

  The cannon sounds again, now aimed beyond the square at the army outside, which is streaming towards the main entrance. But Rumiñawi’s troops cannot get in. The great stone gate through which the Inca’s litter passed not an hour ago is choked to the lintel by a crush of living and dead.

  —

  Amid the sea of chaos is a shrinking island of calm. The nobles around Atawallpa are standing their ground. As the Spaniards cut away those holding the Inca’s throne, other bearers step forward to take their place. Some even heft the poles on gushing shoulders without arms. Francisco Pizarro is on foot at the front of this slaughter, slashing at a thicket of flesh and bone that seems to grow back as soon as it is felled, his old body tiring from the work. But he is not alone. Christians are cutting towards the Inca on all sides. It is only a matter of time.

  At length, the thinning stand of nobles cannot hold. The palanquin sways and topples. Pizarro leaps upon Atawallpa and drags him out by his hair.

  An earspool falls, revealing the misshapen band of flesh.

  One man, in frenzy, lunges at the Inca with a knife. Pizarro parries the blow just in time, taking a cut to his left hand.

  It is the only wound suffered by a Spaniard.

  14

  There were faces, voices. Waman can’t recall the words or even the language. There is a veil between him and everything around. He is dead, his throat torn away by the great hounds, and this misty world he wanders is the land the dead must walk. An underworld of ice and darkness, with nothing to eat but stones.

  Felipe! Waman!

  Faces. Worried eyes.

  Who are you?

  You must drink. You must eat.

  I can’t eat stones.

  He’s still raving. Or possessed.

  —

  Many days and nights have passed. He is no longer in the public hall but in a house, a room with a fresh smell of new thatch, with warmth and sunlight streaming in the door. Beneath him is a sheet, a cotton mattress. Above him a soft alpaca blanket. A real bed. Like long ago in Little River.

  Where am I? Is this death?

  Not a scratch on you. You must eat. Drink.

  When water is put to his mouth it tastes of gore.

  Candía brings a local woman, a matronly sort, to nurse him. Sometimes the Old One comes, pacing and wittering. Shaking him awake, the sunken yellow eyes, the lamprey mouth, calling on him to speak to Atawallpa. How can Atawallpa be alive? How can anyone?

  Waman walks the room on Candía’s arm. His body strengthens. E
ven when strong enough he will not go outside.

  The streets are swept and washed. Palm oil lamps burn in the niches, incense wafts from braziers. But nothing can drive the fetor of spilt blood and bowels from Cajamarca. The dead are gone, they say. Waman does not believe this. He knows the dead are all around, for every night they come to him—men, women, children—walking on stumps without feet, reaching for him with handless arms. Some have no jaws or heads, yet still they speak. We are the dead. He murdered them, betrayed them. He is the chaka, the bridge by which bearded demons crossed into the World.

  You were only the lengua, Candía says. You wielded only a tongue. Besides, you helped overthrow a tyrant who’d already spilt more blood than we did. Why such shock at what Christians do in war? You saw us fight in Tumbes. You know what we do. And you gave the Inca the Requirement. He was fairly warned. He was a fool. Undone by his own pride.

  Waman cannot find answers for his friend. Nor for himself. Yes, he knew what could happen. But to know is not the same as to see. Atawallpa, perhaps, had a choice, a moment of decision. His people did not. And this was no battlefield. It was a slaughterhouse. And he, Waman, the Judas goat.

  —

  The Commander at the door again, left hand still wrapped in bloody cotton. “Enough is enough, Little Philip. To work! I need you. Every Christian needs you. Without you, we may yet all die. Do as I say, or I’ll compel you. You know I can.”

  Oh, yes. Waman knows how men are made to talk. With fire and iron. With man-eating dogs.

  He walks out slowly into the sun, into a city where only some stained walls and paving show that anything has happened. But everywhere he smells death. He sees the oily smoke rising from a gully beyond the town, the stacked gyre of vultures overhead. He hears the madding flies.

  The Old One brings the Inca to dine with him and his officers at the royal palace in the city, now the Spaniards’ barracks. The banquet is set out in the Inca way, low dining boards on the stone floor of a lamplit hall, dishes and settings arrayed on a long fawn cloth with a red hem. The diners are sitting on rows of cushions. The two leaders, Commander and Inca, preside at the head on golden stools, as if both were hosts—which in a way they are, since the food and service are from the Inca’s headquarters at the hot springs. Waman is kneeling behind them, at the ready.

  “How much longer must we squat like savages?” Soto blusters as he takes his place. “Those carpenters are idling.” He jerks his thumb towards the sound of sawing and chiselling in a back courtyard—the servants’ yard, where Waman is kept.

  “Have patience, Don Hernando,” says Valverde. “With patience one gets to Heaven. God’s house must have its furnishings before we do. The cross is done. The altar won’t take much longer. Besides, Our Lord Himself dined as we do now.”

  “Nonsense, Father. Look at any painting of the Supper. The apostles ate like Christians, not Moors. Tables and chairs, man!”

  “Those paintings are wrong. Any scholar will tell you.”

  “Scholars, my arse!” Soto spits on the floor behind him. A girl appears, discreetly wipes the polished stone.

  Pizarro claps his hands. “Father Valverde, say grace.”

  All this time Atawallpa has been sitting quietly, his eyes downcast, his head to one side as always. He still wears the imperial fringe, but his neck is bruised by the iron collar he wears in his prison each night. The Inca does not look up until the Spaniards bow their heads and shut their eyes for the blessing. He watches their priest with a cat-like stare.

  Pizarro pours a round of wine, precious stuff brought all the way from Spain. Then: “Christians! Tonight our royal guest does us the honour of dining in our company. Raise your cups and let’s hear you. Atawallpa!”

  “Atawallpa.”

  The Inca takes no notice. He seems far away, as if thinking over his mistake.

  “Why so sad and silent?” the Commander asks. “Have no fear for your life, Lord Inca. In every land where we Christians have overthrown great kings they soon become our friends. We kill only in the heat of battle, never in cold blood.”

  “A battle!” Atawallpa replies. “You call that a battle? Spare me your jokes.” He gazes bleakly over golden salvers, jugs, dishes, the steaming piles of food, the wild, bearded men. Then, as if to himself: “You were to be my prisoner, Old One. Now I am yours. This is a pachakuti, the world thrown upside down.”

  “What was that?” Pizarro demands. “Did you catch it, boy?”

  “He says things have turned out the reverse of what he expected. That you should be the prisoner here, not he.”

  “Don’t shorten his words, boy. And don’t embroider them either. I want to know exactly what he says.”

  “That was all. I swear.”

  The Spaniard grunts. The Inca sinks back into stillness, eating nothing, not even touching the wine. He sees what Maytawillka noted. (Poor cousin, cut to shreds!) How the Spaniards fondle his dinner service; how they tap the metal and bite it to gauge its purity, rolling their eyes, grinning and whistling.

  The first thing they did when they chained him up in the Sun’s House after the massacre was begin stripping the temple of its gold. Now they have the gold from his field camp, too—not least this banqueting service.

  “Tell me, Old One,” he says, the interpreter rendering every word, along with the Inca’s mocking tone. “Tell me this. Like all men you seek power over others. I know that if a man lacks power, he may risk his life to get it. I have done so myself. But why gamble your lives for gold?”

  Pizarro twirls an end of his moustache, unseating a few grains of quinoa and a louse.

  “Because, Lord Inca, amongst us, gold is power. Gold makes the small man great, the ugly handsome, the old young. It takes away hunger. It takes away fear—even the fear of Hell. Why, with gold the worst of sinners can buy their way to Heaven.”

  “There’s already enough gold in Heaven. It shines on us each day. The metal we find is merely the sweat of Father Sun, the drops that fall to Earth. Why would Heaven need gold?”

  “You will understand, Lord Inca, when you become a Christian. Gold pays for charity, for prayers to save our souls. Charity washes away our sins . . . our misdeeds. It frees us from the chains of death. Ask Friar Valverde. He will gladly enlighten you on all matters of our Holy Faith.”

  As always, Waman has trouble conveying spiritual talk. What Atawallpa hears is this: Gold is swapped for love and good deeds and chanting to set spirits free. Love washes away misdeeds. Therefore gold undoes the bonds of death. Ask the black-gown. His name is Walwirti. He will teach you holy things.

  The Inca falls still, thinking. Then: “You say gold frees men from death?”

  Pizarro nods. “If we remember God and the poor when we die we go to Heaven and eternal life. Instead of Hell and everlasting fire.”

  “Why don’t Christians remember their god and the poor while they’re alive?”

  “Some do, Lord Inca. Friars mostly.”

  “Can gold buy freedom from the bonds of men?”

  “Indeed. The poor man rots in jail for his crimes. The rich man pays the King and walks away. He pays a lawyer too.”

  “Then I shall give you more gold than your horses can carry to your ships. And you shall give me freedom in return.”

  Again Pizarro toys with his moustache.

  “How much? How soon?”

  “The room in the Sun’s House where you keep me. That room filled to the niche-line on the walls. It will take about two months.”

  “Two months?” The same thought is in both heads: enough time to escape, to raise a counterstrike.

  “My kingdom is far greater than you know. The cities are many and the roads are long. Across deserts, jungles, ranges. From the Blue River in Quito to the Mauli River in Chile is more than three thousand of your miles. So, two months. But I’ll fill two further rooms with silver.”
>
  Commander and Inca study each other, Pizarro’s expression changing like weather from desire to menace under the sparse wool of his beard. Why not? Why not have the Inca do the looting for them?

  “You must send your armies far from here. If they kill one Christian you die.”

  “Agreed, Old One. Rumiñawi will strike camp tomorrow and pull back to the far north. My other generals are weeks away, in Huanuco, Xauxa, and Cusco. I shall tell them to stay put and do anything you command.”

  “Done!” cries Pizarro, wiping his right hand on his whiskers and holding it out. Atawallpa has seen this white men’s custom. He takes the hand, still slick with fat despite its cleansing on the beard.

  “Check.” It is the endgame. A hint of triumph flits like the shadow of a bird across the Inca’s face. He has been Pizarro’s captive for more than a month now, and in this time has become the strongest player in Peru, better than Candía, Valverde, Hernando Pizarro. Even a little better than Waman, the former champion, against whom he takes two games in three; though sometimes, when the Inca is more downcast than usual, the interpreter lets him win. Today is one of those days—for the Commander has boasted that ships will soon be landing at Tumbes, bringing his partner Almagro back from Panama with hundreds of fresh troops.

  Waman makes a weak move, though he has seen a way to slip from the Inca’s check.

  “Don’t humour me, Waman . . . Pilipi . . . whichever you call yourself today. Take that back and think again. Play like a man. Like an Inca!” Atawallpa lets out a bitter laugh.

  The Inca is clever, for all that he made one great mistake. He calls the game taptana, which means ambush, and has named the chessmen: inka for king, qoya for queen, pukara for castle, runa for pawn, willaq for bishop, after the head priests in Cusco. For the knights he says hatun llama, big llama, or sometimes kawallu, his pronunciation of the Spanish word for horse. He is learning his captors’ language quickly. Others, meanwhile, are picking up a bit of Quechua. If things drag on too long the Inca won’t need him, Waman fears. And neither will Pizarro. What then?