Blood of the Incas

by David Harris

  He leant over to give the map to Castillo. ‘Do me a big favour. Show me exactly where we go after this canyon.’

  Castillo studied the map carefully. ‘Maybe if we turn the map a little.’ He rotated it a few degrees clockwise. He looked along the canyon and out to the maze waiting for them. Then he squinted at lines on the map. ‘This is road from Cuzco. This the Urubamba. We are …’ He touched a point on the map where two rivers joined. ‘This way, maybe.’ Taking off his floppy hat, Castillo scratched his neck. ‘This map is not like mountains I know.’

  They rode in silence, down the trail and towards the end of the valley. When they rode out of the valley and onto a river bank, Hiram said, ‘Time to eat.’

  Castillo chuckled. ‘My friend.’

  ‘What?’

  Castillo’s grin almost split his face.

  Hiram narrowed his eyes. ‘I hope this is not another of your little jokes.’

  ‘Remember you taught me jackpot in card game?’

  ‘Yes. Two jacks and you win all the money. So?’

  Castillo pointed excitedly to some sheep climbing up onto the stony river bank.

  ‘Jackpot.’ Holding one hand to the top of his hat, Castillo leapt off his horse, ran in a wide half-circle past the sheep, over the river bank and out of sight.

  Chapter 19

  A short time later, Castillo’s hat rose slowly above the river bank. Then his red poncho. Another floppy hat bobbed into sight.

  An old man, face wrapped in dry wrinkles, skinny body wrapped in a heavy poncho, feet tottering along in worn boots, struggled to keep up with a grinning Castillo.

  Proudly Castillo presented the old man to Hiram. ‘This a shepherd. His name is Melchor.’

  Hiram held out one hand and shook the dry, leathery hand of the shepherd.

  The old man’s grip was weak and he quickly let go.

  ‘I told Melchor that you are friend of the President and that you are important official leader of the Yale University and Royal Geographical Society Peruvian Expedition.’ Castillo winked. ‘He does not understand all those long words but he thinks you are powerful man. Maybe you are more feared than tax collector.’

  ‘Does he know the right Inca trail to Vitcos?’

  ‘He says he is afraid to talk with you.’

  Hiram reached into his jacket pocket. Coins jingled.

  ‘Wait, wait. Do not show money. Then he can refuse it and not help us. Try old Spanish custom.’

  Hiram understood. He slid a coin from his pocket, closed his fist to hide it, sidled close to the old man and, while the shepherd looked vacantly at something in the sky, Hiram slipped the coin into the old man’s open palm. Fingers snapped shut and the coin vanished beneath the poncho.

  Melchor was officially employed.

  ‘Castillo, can he tell us the way to Vitcos?’

  Castillo and Melchor held an urgent conversation.

  Eventually the old man pointed at a narrow valley and said, ‘Salapunco.’

  Hiram rubbed his hands together briskly, as if warming them. Salapunco means Doorway to Ruins. Who needs maps if you have the names? He looked towards the entrance to the valley of Salapunco. It was heavily overgrown with jungle. ‘Ask him if we can get through with the animals.’

  The old shepherd stretched his eyes in fear, opened wide his toothless mouth and gabbled dreadful warnings. No interpreter was needed for his wild gestures of bodies falling from cliffs, the snarl and claws of cougars, the death embrace of a bear, tails of scorpions arching up, fangs of snakes striking — lots of snakes, hundreds of snakes, valleys filled with snakes …

  Come on, old man, say the words I want to hear.

  ‘Urubamba.’

  Good, we’re on the right track.

  A little later, Melchor said a long name that Castillo translated as ‘The Place of Golden Winds’.

  The Inca gold mine. Also on the way to Vitcos. Keep them coming, Melchor, we’re on a roll.

  Melchor said, ‘Rosapata.’ One of the Spanish histories said that Rosapata — The Hill of Roses — was also the hill of Vitcos.

  Privately Hiram celebrated. Just when things were looking grim, Melchor the Toothless shows us the valley to the lost city of Vitcos. At last, luck is turning our way, I hope.

  Chapter 20

  Deep in the valley, Hiram was hot, sweating, thirsty, but he didn’t care. His luck was holding. He and Castillo led the expedition towards a long scar down the mountain side. A wide river of rocks had flowed down. The old shepherd Melchor had told them to look for it. Above this scree slope, where the jungle began again, walls were visible, just as Melchor had said.

  Hiram scrambled up the loose rocks, not caring that sharp pieces dug into his ankles and shins. When he reached the walls, he found the remains of a hut, a dry water channel and a wide boulder worn smooth in the centre, like a shallow saucer. He tore away at a carpet of vines and exposed the curved rim of a huge crushing stone. It was the gold mine Melchor had described. The Place of Golden Winds.

  Hiram took off his hat and wiped his streaming forehead. He thought, There was never enough gold for the conquistadors. The Inca, Atahualpa, failed to fill the room with gold by sunset. Almost full wasn’t good enough, for the conquistador leader Pizarro, sent by Spain to bring home the fabulous treasures of Peru.

  Hiram stood a while, thinking about the horrific bloodshed. Then he made his way down the loose scree and back to the others.

  As the trail headed higher, the small river they followed soon narrowed to a stream. Suffering from the heat, Hiram was delighted when the trickle gathered into a rock pool. The water looked deep, cold and inviting. Hiram was the first man off his horse. He knelt by the pool and scooped hatfuls of water over his head and chest. A breeze fanned him and he shivered.

  His horse whinnied and snorted, but Hiram ignored it. He was too busy drinking deeply from the rock pool. Then he noticed the smell. What have I swallowed?

  He tried to see if anything was dead under the water.

  Castillo tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Up there.’

  Above the pool, almost hidden in the jungle, was a boulder. Something was draped over it. One of the legs dangled down. Hiram saw the hoof.

  ‘A horse?’ What size beast could drag a horse up there?

  ‘Not good.’ Castillo pointed to some marks further along in the mud.

  ‘Cougar or panther?’ Hiram asked.

  Castillo glanced around the jungle. ‘We go. He is panther. Very big panther.’ His tone suggested ‘big’ was an understatement. Where is the man who rode that horse?

  Hiram looked up at the rock. Were human bones up there?

  ‘We need the village tonight,’ Castillo said. ‘Stone walls. Nobody sleep in tent. That panther he already likes to eat horse. Maybe man also.’

  ‘How far to the village?’ Hiram asked Castillo.

  ‘Close, I think. Old man Melchor is not so good with clocks. His times stretch like rubber.’ Castillo went to his horse and slipped his rifle from its holster, just behind the saddle. He slipped one bullet into the breech and tucked another bullet in a loop of wool on the shoulder of his poncho so he could reload quickly without lowering the gun.

  ‘Only two bullets?’ Hiram was surprised.

  Castillo checked the safety catch. ‘If that panther runs for you, I have one shot for him. If he jumps on you, the other bullet is for you.’ He raised one eyebrow.

  News of the panther had spread quickly. Hiram’s team loaded and checked guns. They cantered back among the porters and mules. Erik Erikson, mapmaker and Viking, with red beard, red hair, freckles and a genetic disposition to pillage, trotted his horse back to the most dangerous position at the end of the mule train.

  The doctor, with his bandit’s moustache and a Colt 45 revolver stuck in his belt, looked more like a desperado than a surgeon. He stayed with Buchan who swayed unsteadily on the mule’s back and grinned idiotically. ‘Pretty trees, pretty sky, pretty dead horse.’

  ‘Shut the pr
etty up,’ said Doctor Williams.

  Hiram, rifle resting across his lap, touched the spurs against his horse and rode into the narrow jungle path.

  ‘Look in branches,’ Castillo said. ‘That big cat is clever. He has you by back of neck before you know.’

  Buchan’s voice rang out. ‘Here, kitty, kitty.’

  Chapter 21

  Hiram was acutely aware of jungle noises. Monkeys howled and coughed. Cicadas whirred their shrill, unceasing songs. Macaws screeched, flycatchers whistled, frogs croaked, insects hummed and something bashed about in the vines.

  How many days had the endless noise of the jungle almost driven him mad? How many nights without sleep while the jungle screamed, clicked, whistled and grunted? Right now a panther could stamp and shove his way through the undergrowth and they would never hear him.

  Ahead, the road opened out and Hiram saw a large plantation. But when they rode the path through the crops, Hiram couldn’t see any people working in the fields of corn and potatoes. There was an eerie tension in the air. No birds sang. On nearby corncobs the silk hung black. Hiram thought, It feels like the end of the world.

  ‘See, over there. Deer breaking crops.’ Castillo pointed at a damaged crop of beans. ‘Villagers are too afraid to patrol at night.’

  In the distance thatched roofs showed above the corn. Nearing the village, they noticed that all doors were shut, no children played in the dusty streets, no old people sat in the sun.

  Hiram couldn’t help noticing the unusual walls of the nearest house. Each stone was beautifully carved, smooth and a perfect fit. This was a poor, isolated village but the house, and the next, and the next, were built with Inca stone.

  Hiram had seen this in other villages and farms. The local people broke down Inca fortresses to build strong homes. This village, however, was different. The stones were of superb craftsmanship.

  At the sound of horses and mules a door opened. A wrinkled, brown face peeked out at them. The man called and other doors opened. Men, women and children rushed into the street. A dog squealed at the sight of the invaders and, tail between his legs, barked hysterically. Dogs tumbled out of doors, formed a pack and attacked the line of mules, while riders kicked at them and swung sticks to keep the dogs’ frothing, snarling jaws away. Chickens, demented, flew cackling and squawking from windows and, heads stretched forward, legs pounding like mad, ran around in circles, scattering dust and feathers.

  One older man grabbed Castillo’s horse’s bridle and began babbling desperately.

  Castillo leaned towards Hiram. ‘He is a village elder. He begs us to save them. The panther has killed a man and his horse.’

  The village elder kept pleading with Castillo and pointing along the mule train.

  ‘I have seen this many times,’ Castillo said. ‘Panther has a taste for people and he comes to village. The elder says people cannot harvest food, or grass for animals. He is afraid crops will rot and they will starve in cold winter. Two days ago, panther he leave paw marks in street. Last night, he growl. We are many guns. He wants us to kill the panther.’

  While Castillo was interpreting for the elder, children crowded around them. One boy, maybe ten years old, with wide cheeks and a grubby face, ran beside Hiram, patting his boots. He laughed up at Hiram, grabbed the bridle and proudly led the horse and all the wonderful procession as if a carnival had come to town. Hiram leant down and ruffled the boy’s hair. But Hiram’s mind was on the marvellous building stones. ‘What is the name of the village?’ Hiram called across to Castillo.

  ‘Rosapata,’ the elder said.

  Hiram felt a rush of blood.

  The man pointed to the mountain. ‘The Hill of Roses.’

  Hiram quickly checked the sun, sinking in the west. Then he searched along the top of The Hill of Roses but saw no fortress walls. Is Vitcos up there. Am I so close?

  Chapter 22

  High on Rosapata, Hiram had a stitch in his side. He stopped climbing and leaned forward, hands on knees, each breath hurting. Castillo, rifle in one hand, looked around the barren hillside and down at the village. Their horses and mules, as tiny as toys from this height, huddled inside a walled corral.

  Hiram craned his neck and looked for the sun, now perilously close to setting behind the ranges. ‘A few more breaths.’ He was sure he’d seen a wall along a ridge or maybe it was just a ridge. ‘Let’s go.’

  Castillo kept pace on his sturdy legs beside Hiram, who half-scrambled and half-ran for the ridge. Rocks gradually formed a neat pattern of straight joins. That’s no ridge. He clawed his way up to the walls and clung to a broken rock. His chest rasped like sandpaper and he struggled to cope with the shock of what he saw inside.

  A breathless voice beside him said, ‘Jackpot.’

  Walls, foundations, water channels, paved streets, ruins of buildings. That network of narrow alleyways could be for the markets and, near the centre, a flat pampa for royal ceremonies, sport, military training, and murder.

  Hiram saw the past as if its glory paraded on the flat field. The Inca appeared in a crown of red and yellow feathers, a golden mask, his chest shining with silver. In one hand he held a shield of gold, in the other a golden spear. The air shook with the roar of his soldiers, the loud clamour of drums, bells and flutes, chants of priests, the shrieks of mercenary Flesh-Eaters, the rush of men wielding axes, spears and bronze daggers in mock battles; all the glitter and majesty of the Children of the Sun.

  ‘Not so fast,’ Hiram told himself. ‘Make sure of the facts.’

  Castillo noticed the change in Hiram’s expression. ‘Is this Vitcos?’

  Hiram clenched his fist. ‘The royal palace was meant to be more than two hundred feet long. There’s nothing here half that length.’

  The Spanish histories said that the last Inca, Tupac Amaru, lived in the fortress of Vitcos. He’d been in Vitcos as a young prince, and later had fled back to Vitcos when he was the Inca, on the run from Captain Garcia. Did the eyewitness histories get it so wrong or exaggerate? Something is definitely not right.

  Worried, Hiram walked into the central road. His boots clicked on cobblestones. On each side were foundations, and occasionally enough wall to hold a section of window. Straight ahead was the eastern defensive wall. No, the whole place is too small. Where’s the temple or the palace? This is only another fortress. Why does everything have to be so difficult? Well, at least I know now that the other city, Vilcabamba, must be the capital city.

  Shadows lengthened along one interesting foundation. It was rectangular but didn’t look like military barracks. The dividing walls were too close. Hiram was almost too nervous to admit what the building could be in case he was disappointed. But he remembered a house like this in one of the eyewitness chronicles.

  Hiding his excitement, Hiram chose a spot, knelt, and scratched the soil with the point of his knife. Almost immediately the blade scraped on something. Carefully he dug it out and blew the dust away.

  ‘Look, Castillo. Quick.’

  He held a clue, perhaps, that the seven runaway conquistadors lived here. Back in Cuzco, the seven men had assassinated their leader, Pizarro. After the murder their conspiracy collapsed. They were outnumbered and had nowhere to run, except to the enemy. The father of the last Inca took the killers as his guests, despite warnings from his nobles. He thought they’d have useful information about the conquistadors and would be willing to act as spies for him.

  Castillo knelt beside Hiram. He couldn’t think of the right word for the object Hiram showed him. ‘From a saddle?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s an iron buckle. See this decoration? Spanish.’

  Hiram scraped the earth again and unearthed more metal. He held each up in his dirty fingers. ‘Iron nail. And here, a horseshoe. A decoration from a Spanish bridle.’

  Castillo smacked his hands together. ‘This is Vitcos. Lost City. Conquistador murderers lived here.’

  But Hiram frowned. ‘What if these things came from a raid when the Inca’s warriors
ambushed some Spaniards? Or they could belong to somebody else, not the murderers.’

  Castillo made a face of disbelief.

  ‘It’s not that easy, Castillo. I’m not a trained archaeologist. I need proof that this place is Vitcos. I can’t jump to conclusions, even if I want to.’

  ‘I find proof.’ Castillo put down his gun, took out his dagger and scratched at the soil. Straightaway his blade scratched metal and he pulled out a pair of iron scissors. ‘This is easy,’ he laughed.

  Then he dug up the metal tongues of three mouth harps. ‘See? Assassins lived here.’ He plunged his dagger into the ground as if claiming the ruin.

  Hiram wanted with all his heart to believe that he was in Vitcos. But the histories were as messy as the deaths.

  Hiram went over the evidence.

  One eyewitness said a fight began over a game of lawn bowls. Another said it was quoits, or even a game of checkers. Whatever, the most likely story is that a game of bowls became a fierce competition between the father of the last Inca and Gomez Mendez, leader of the refugee conquistadors. Tempers rose. Mendez, a hothead and heavy drinker, accused his opponent of cheating on a measurement between bowling balls. The Inca, outraged that a barbarian dared to insult him, pushed Mendez in the chest. Fiery-tempered Mendez swung the bowling ball and struck the Inca in the head, smashing his skull.

  All hell broke loose. The Inca’s men roared with rage. The conquistadors fled to their houses, grabbed swords and fought off warriors who rushed the door. Men were on the roof and the thatch caught fire. Smoke and flames poured into the room. Burn to death or fight? The seven conquistadors charged out the door and made a run for their horses. They fought their way through the narrow streets. What hope did they have, surrounded by an army? When they broke away from the buildings and sprinted for the horses, a tempest of arrows and spears flew upon them. Perhaps one or two of them, arrows hanging from their bodies, clambered onto their horses, only to be dragged down.