It didn’t make all too much sense. But it led me to think more.
“Did you hear what happen to old Balthazar?”
“No.”
“Well let me tell you.”
What he told me was more or less what I heard from other men, though the details were always different. The gossip was always juicy, and like a rare rack of meat, when it went down it was always filling.
Then when he thought I was ready, he told me the rumors of El Dorado.
“But there’s more, Sardina.”
There was always more.
“No. There’s El Dorado. The Golden Man. They say his land is grander than Cusco. Grander than Egypt! The roads are paved with gold, Sardina!”
“Where is it?”
“That’s the best question of all.”
He didn’t know. Nobody did. And, as always, we were left to pretend.
I didn’t know how much time had passed since I left Spain. By then I was thinking about the future. Time disappeared in Cusco and it was replaced by a general sense of angst. Although they were beautiful, these rumors held no water. And I, for one, was sick of them. But others were not. And when I say others, I mean everybody.
The others held these rumors in the highest regard. The rumors came in waves. Ebbs and flows. Surges and lulls. In those quiet moments in between I thought of Spain, and with the thought came its inevitable guilt. The guilt of coming back brought nothing but pain. It was my story to tell. It was my burden to explain. My younger brothers were only five and nine years old when I left. My father died two months before. I would be a stranger to them, and they wouldn’t understand at all. Then I began to remember the boredom and complacency of my time in Spain. It was the most lonesome and unbearable time in my life, and it reminded me of why I came to the New Land in the first place.
“What was left in Spain?” I repeated to myself.
I never knew the answer.
I am still unsure.
The rumors returned and poured on like falling rain. I heard whispers. Some in Spanish. Some in Quechua. But they came in and resurfaced, and compelled us the more. The excitement was back, and men refused to breathe.
“More gold than this? Than this?”
“Where? Where?!”
“El Dorado?”
“El Dorado.”
“They say it’s a man.”
“No, a god.”
“A god?”
“A god made of gold.”
“Their gods are quite colorful.”
“But where?”
“Where?”
“By the river’s end.”
“The river’s end?”
In time, Escobar and I were relieved of our duties. And Manco was free to rule without our company. Everyone knew it was a mistake, but for Francisco, this gesture was a friendly one. It was a gesture of trust. Manco was left alone and for some, he was ignored. I didn’t think of him. That’s for sure.
When Manco’s release was announced, Soto was disgusted most of all. I saw him again as my duties were relieved. I found later that Soto was placed in the Almagro side of the city and was in charge of affairs of taxation and correspondence to the Crown. That’s what he told me anyway. He did not discuss these matters, we merely played chess. It was his release. I could tell his mind was troubled. We played more games in Cusco, more games that I could handle. And Soto won them all.
“You’re getting predictable, Sardina.” He said.
I didn’t respond. No words came to me. At least, none that were new or sufficient.
I asked Soto what he thought of the rumors, but he said to me he hadn’t given them much thought. I could tell that he was tired of these rumors, and he did not want to waste a single breath on any of them, especially the rumors he hadn’t heard yet.
In that crisis that was Peru, in all that time, I had never seen a man more calm and composed than Soto. For Soto, there was only the now. The clear and present now. He remained calm and self-assured. His face was stoic and his hands were always straight. They never fatigued or trembled. He always made his moves with his thumb and index finger, and he confidently placed his piece directly on its new square and then let go, while snapping his fingers back as if he pinched a dash of salt on a slab of meat.
Though I knew for certain that he pretended not to feign interest in the rumors. After a while, I knew that the rumors had wore onto him, and I knew for certain he wanted to hear every one of them. He wanted to hear what I heard. He wanted to confirm. Each question he asked was a constant reassurance. And Soto listened to every word.
“I’ve heard of this El Dorado. This gold man.”
“What have you heard of him, Sardina?”
“I heard he’s close. I heard he’s grand.”
“How close?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What else about him?”
“He lives in a golden land. Cusco is only one of his cities. But he’s a man hard to locate.”
“So you’re saying he’s a ghost?”
“They only say he comes and goes like one. It’s impossible to say who he is.”
“It’s only impossible.”
Then he looked at me with disgust and sighed, “You’ve gotten fat, Sardina. You’re eating too many potatoes.”
Each night Soto left angrier than he arrived. And each night, I loss in fewer moves than the night before. He told me later that he knew certain things of the future that others hadn’t seen, or weren’t even capable of knowing. I found it odd at first, but he elaborated and explained to me that he had played the game so long that its structure and rules had mimicked life itself and vice versa. And knowing such things was his burden to carry. If there was any man capable of such a load, it was Soto. He was ready for the collapse.
As time passed, there were no more rumors to tell. There were only the same ones that were repeated.
It was only time for someone to take to these rumors and find out their merit.
It was only time for the great divide to happen once more, and when it did, I wasn’t the least surprised.”
VI
Nights passed. Cusco was still whole. During one night, Francisco had a long talk with Hernando. It was probably the longest talk he had ever given with any of his brothers. But he was ready for it. Though when Francisco spoke, he spoke in vague terms. Muddied and insipid fragments, though he forged ahead. Francisco knew what Soto did. But explaining what he knew to others was a grueling task. His ever-present determined demeanor was evident of just one thing: things in Cusco would never be the same.
Needless to say, Hernando was quite bewildered.
“Enjoy these days, Hernando.” Francisco began.
“Of course, I enjoy them.”
“You don’t know what I mean.”
“No? Then what do you mean?”
“It’s crumbling.”
“What’s crumbling?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?”
Francisco sighed.
“The whole situation. This can’t last very long.”
“What do you mean?” Hernando said.
“This is your city now, Hernando.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wish I could tell you. I wish you understood. This city needs a saint. And that’s you, Hernando. In time, you’ll have all of this. This is your city, Hernando.”
“This is our city.” Said Hernando.
“No. It’s yours.” Said Francisco. “Remember that when the time comes.”
“Then where is your city?”
“I’ll find it myself. But for the time being, enjoy it as it is. Enjoy it all.”
Hernando didn’t say another word. Nor did Francisco. The fire went out and they stabbed the gray chards of ash with their swords.
Hernando thought about this time and his brother’s words. It was only later that Hernando understood these things. It was only later that understood why Francisco left for Lima. And it was only later h
e understood why the peace of the moment had to have been savored. Later, Hernando came to understand the burden he would soon have. To be king. To be the one ruler that sees all. To have all the attention. And all power. It was a frightening thought. But Hernando hadn’t thought of it fully until it happened. And in that moment when those words were spoken, he merely nodded and let the words escape into the air. The words were spirits of death. Nothing more. Nothing less.
When the conversation was over Francisco sighed and looked up at the heavens, Hernando did the same.
VII
As the night progressed, more men talked, and more rumors filled the air. The night’s sky was clear and the billions of stars scattered along the sky made the mood peaceful, but somehow it also made it regretful.
By a nearby fire sat Almagro and his son Diego. They too talked. They talked for a long time.
They talked about the rumors. They talked about the stories of Atahualpa's lost gold. They talked about their future plans of their lives, and the world to come. But mostly they talked about their plans. They talked about El Dorado and all the land that needed to be conquered, and all the work that needed to get done.
“Five hundred men are enough. We’ll have Balthazar in charge. We should get Pablo as well to man the second battalion.” Said Almagro.
“What about Soto?” Asked Diego.
“Soto is not invited.”
“Why?”
“He’s not to come, Diego. I don’t trust him anymore. There’s too much to risk.”
“But Soto has been your most loyal man.”
“Yes. And that’s what makes him so dangerous. He’s too smart for his own good. You can’t trust intelligent people who want to prove themselves. I don’t trust Soto anymore.”
“Then who can you trust?”
“You trust those who can only see so far. Those who will never stop and question. Those are the men who will die for you. Those are the men you trust, Diego. Soto used to be one of those men. He isn’t now.”
“I see.”
“You better.”
“What are we going to do now, father?” Asked Diego.
“There’s only one option, Diego.”
“I know.”
“But you must also know, that these Pizarros are not to be trusted. None of them. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I told you that a long time ago.”
“I know.”
Diego remained silent for a long time. His father seemed restless. There were too many things to think about. Too many questions that remained unanswered.
So Diego asked away.
“So do we kill them now?”
“No.”
“What are we to do?”
“Not a thing until the scouts return.”
“Yes, sir. What if the scouts don’t find anything?”
“They’ll find something. They’re bound to. We’ll find El Dorado. Once we do, it’s ours and we’ll guard it to the teeth. Just keep your eyes open, Diego. And remember to trust no one.”
“Yes, sir.”
They stared at stars. They stared at their gold, their evidence, which was now only a partial reminder.
And a paltry one at that.
VIII
All the Spanish stared. All had their obsession. All had their gaze.
For Gonzalo, in particular, the gaze was of Cura. He needed unfamiliarity. An all too human need. More than gold. More than control. And Cura was it.
He grew tired of his fair Spanish ladies and it seemed for weeks at a time that his coyest nature of denying their invites only attracted them more towards his side. He took to those he could and had his way, but after each session, he grew bored of them. They were too familiar and they reminded him of his mother, and they grew ugly all too fast.
He watched Cura at all times and always at a distance. He watched her dance in ceremonies. And he watched her cradle and breastfed Titu Cusi.
It was the want. And for Gonzalo, every day the want grew and grew.
Of course, the obsession to become king was Gonzalo’s prime thought. Capturing Cura was part and parcel. A stolen queen meant that he was following tradition, and the sight of her meant the world.
But the timing wasn’t right. Cura was guarded not only by the Incan Royal Court, but also by her husband, Manco, and his Inca compatriots. She was never alone, and that was the problem. Gonzalo was always alone. It was a frustrating circumstance, and, as he studied the situation, Gonzalo kept extremely quiet and dissonant, and tried to live in denial.
But he couldn’t. Later, he told his brother, Juan, and confessed to him all of his wants and desires, and Juan merely looked at him in stupefied fashion.
“You’ll get want you want, Gonzalo. We’ll arrange.”
In the meantime, Gonzalo kept control of his emotions. He took orders from Hernando and dictated them to Juan. And for the meanwhile, Gonzalo merely stared like all the rest and waited for his moment to arrive.
As the rumors intensified, the Spanish forgot about their Inca King, and Manco took no hesitation. He took off his royal garb and hid amongst the Inca servants. He pleaded them not to say a word, and in the evening, Manco hid in between the shadows and stone statues and spotted his former guard, Escobar, who was taking in the sunset and drinking swaps from his jug of wine.
The night was coming on and the friendly moon was full and bright and orange. Escobar tilted his head and stared at the upcoming stars, and very drunkenly he pointed at them and named each one he remembered. Polaris. Cassiopeia. Taurus. Hydra. He tried to connect them with his finger. He babbled to himself incoherently. Then he wondered about the nights on the ships and how the navigators knew what they knew. It was still baffling to him, baffling for all the right reasons, and he concluded that there must be a God in all this immensity.
“For something this grand. Something this majestic must have…”
The words escaped him.
“So many lands more to explore. So spacious. So much. So beautiful. So…”
Then Manco took out his blade, crept to Escobar’s back, and stabbed him repeatedly. Later, Manco pressed his hand against Escobar’s mouth and prevented him from screaming. And when he finished stabbing, Manco withdrew his blade and disappeared through the canopy.
CHAPTER 5
‘It was getting cold in the den. Coronado started a fire, and we watched it burn. Neither of us said a word for five minutes. Coronado stretched his hands and back and yawned. I knew Coronado couldn’t stand the silence. So I broke it for him.
“I’m not boring you, am I?”
“No. Not at all. If anything, Sardina, I’m overwhelmed by it. But some parts of your story elude me.”
“For instance?”
“The timing.”
“The timing?”
“According to others, what you say happened in months, they say happened in years.”
“They might be right. I didn’t keep track.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not a learned man, Coronado.”
“But you should know the difference between months and years, shouldn’t you?”
“Months and years were one and the same in the jungle. I admit my sense of time escaped me. I was too busy surviving.”
“Also, I was told Atahualpa was hung not stabbed. Which was it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really remember.”
“A man your age should remember everything.”
“A man my age can’t afford to.”
“Forgive me, but I want to know everything, Sardina.”
“I’m telling you everything, Coronado.”
“Are you sure you’re not leaving anything out?”
“I’m sure.”
“I apologize, then.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m anxious, that’s all. Your story is too powerful.”
Coronado neither laughed nor understood. He questioned me further, and I tried to answer.
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