B01AOKY60K

by Dennis Santaniello

  But as I saw more and more of our men depart Cusco and head back to Spain, I grew weary. It embarrassed me to think of such things. Embarrassing because my memory of Spain became so foggy. It had simply been too long. I saw myself as a lost sheep that was content to be lost, happy to be on his own. Alone. And desperately fearful of any shepherd wanting to bring him back.

  Spain. What was Spain anymore? It didn’t exist. And I loved that it was dead.”

  VI

  With Hernando now in control of Cusco, the city was as stabilized as it possibly could be. On occasion, there were threats from hostile rival tribes, but those threats were thwarted once the tribes reached the gates. Days passed to weeks. Cusco was secure of all things, and the nearing moon came back pale and bright and big. But the Incas prayed in silence. They shut their eyes and tried to see. But still their demons were ever present, and the air was tragically stagnant.

  On his first day of his reign, Hernando sauntered through the city. Of course, he did so carefully, but it was as if he was a child again. As if he were trying to recapture his youth.

  After a week, Hernando looked at Cusco from up top a high balcony. He made it a ritual of sorts to this at the end of each day. From his view, he saw the Almagro side of the city and marked its differences. For one thing, Almagro’s side of the city was much cleaner, better organized, and better attended to, at least, the stables were. Then Hernando switched to his view to his and brothers side of the city. Things were much sloppier and their quarters looked very much well lived. Though, unlike Almagro’s side, the Pizarro’s side of the city was always filled with a mass of humanity, whereas Almagro’s side felt empty, stale, and old.

  Among those who joined Hernando in his mediation was Orellana. Orellana had his doubts, and being a cousin of the Pizarros, did mean that he knew everything there was to know. But as a ritual, Orellana kept to his word, and each day he climbed up the temples steps and high up top the balcony, and from there he met with Hernando and shared a chalice of wine with him. They always made sure their glasses were well filled, and before they toasted they whispered an incoherent prayer filled with grace and bewilderment. The prayer was always the same. They prayed that this wasn’t just some long twisted dream they would soon wake up from. It was a secret religion that they alone were privy to, and they never missed a day.

  Hernando and Orellana talked amongst themselves. Sometimes they talked about how poor they were back in Spain. Other times they talked about their family back in Trujillo, pig farmers and peasants, starved and pitiful. There was always more to talk about each day, but the ritual remained constant.

  For Orellana, one thing, in particular, struck his imagination and that was El Dorado. The rumors of El Dorado enraptured him, and after a while, it was clear that he grew completely obsessed with it. Though for the meanwhile, he quite enjoyed his stay in Cusco. He enjoyed the riches and the splendor and delighted in the juice of its wine and situation. He looked at Hernando to see if he shared the same wonder, but there was nothing in Hernando’s face that said otherwise. But Orellana knew the reason. Hernando, after all, was the caretaker of Cusco. He was responsible for all things, and would eventually take the blame from either his brothers or the Crown if he hadn’t protected Cusco with absolute vigilance. It was his city now. And with those thoughts, Hernando took in as much wine as he could. Sip by sip he savored and caressed. And sip-by-sip he recounted the events of his life and all that led up to very present moment, and when he had his fill, Hernando stepped aside and pissed down the balcony. He watched it drip down then spray like rain. His whole body quaked and he grunted and roared like a bear. And as he looked below to see what or who had the misfortune of receiving his gifts, he shrugged and snickered until he finished. And after he was done, he sighed and led out a great laugh, that only Orellana understood.

  They closed their eyes and pinched themselves several times. But every time they opened their eyes they found themselves still on the balcony, still kings of a golden city.

  And not another word needed to be said.

  As another day came to a close, Hernando once again took to the steps of the temple, but as he got halfway, he turned about and returned to the square. The reason was to discuss with Manco the subject of the city’s plans for further development, but to Hernando’s shock, Manco was nowhere to be found. He called for his servants and asked for Manco’s whereabouts. The servants knew neither of Manco’s presence nor where he possibly could be. Upon hearing this Hernando immediately sent out for a search party to find Manco, and the next afternoon several men approached Hernando and delivered the Inca King back to the city. There was much commotion in the city, and when Manco was rushed back, the guards pushed him to the ground and his face was submerged in the sand.

  Hernando was brought to the scene about ten minutes later. Hernando then gave Manco a good stare down, and then issued the guards to assist him. For a half hour, Hernando questioned him and he grew angrier at each minute passed. Manco gave no answers. Hernando pleaded with him, but Manco remained silent. Then Hernando approached Manco and slapped him across the face. He gave out the signal for punishment and his men corralled Manco and tied him to a pole.

  Hernando then asked the same questions and slashed him two dozen times across the back with a whip, but Manco said not a word, In fact, he smiled. Then when they finished lashing him, Manco stood up and retrieved an object from his satchel. The Spanish gawked. It was a golden cube. He held it then raised it above his head. He showed it for all to see. The Spanish were surprised. The Incas were appalled.

  Hernando approached Manco slowly, and without saying a word, he gave another glare, grabbed the cube away from Manco’s hand, and then walked away and disappeared through the crowd.

  Nothing was said afterward, and Cusco fell to a calm once again. Then Manco was brought back to his temple, and again two new guards approached him. He smiled at the guards and was once again guarded and watched the entire night. But what Hernando, nor the guards, nor any of the Spaniards knew was the reason why Manco left when he did, and what he did when he was away. And the reason Manco smiled was that he accomplished what needed to be done.

  Two nights before Manco escaped Cusco and traveled down small hamlets and city-states, which were twenty miles south. Manco visited several city-states and consulted with each leader, and in the evening, he gathered a thousand townspeople and assembled them to several small burial chambers, which led down to a secret temple located underground.

  Manco waited for all to arrive, and when he was ready he made his speech. At first, he stared at his confused brethren, and they stared right back. Then as the sweat began to pour from Manco’s face, he started the speech and propelled into a flow with convincing vigor. He sweated again, but the words permeated to each ear. And it was clear to all that Manco was preparing his entire life to give this speech.

  “These are not good spirits.” Manco began. “They are evil spirits. They are devils.”

  He continued. The words flowed and surged.

  “They have taken over our lands. They have raped our women. They have raped everything we’ve known.”

  In the mid-point of his speech, Manco summoned the Inca gods to guide him and his people. Then he begged his tribesmen and extended his hands towards them. He emphasized unity, not just of the Incas, but also of all the tribes of the Andes, even those of hated Huáscar. He looked at the leaders and stated clearly what his purpose was.

  “They do not see us as people. We have shown them kindness. They have not. They have only shown us hatred. They have only done evil. So we shall have to kill them all.”

  Then the crowd erupted in anger.

  “What are we waiting for?” Said one of the tribesman. “Let’s kill them all now!”

  More frantic cries howled. The shouts rang and grew. But Manco shook his head and stood still.

  “No,” He said.

  The crowd grew restless and other tribesman spoke his mind.

  �
�Yes! Why not now?! You said so yourself. These devils ruined our land! They burned our people! Why shouldn’t we kill them now? Why are we wasting our time?”

  “No.” Repeated Manco.

  And with each rebuttal and each plea of immediate vengeance, Manco calmed the crowd with his stern and unyielding countenance.

  “No. Now is not that time.”

  Then Manco took out a Spanish sword.

  “They are not gods. I killed one a few days ago. His flesh was soft.”

  Manco showed the sword to the crowd then twisted it and reflected it in the light.

  “And this was his weapon. They can be killed, but the timing has to be right.”

  “Then when, Manco?” A voice cried out.

  “Twenty days.” Said Manco. “Twenty days. During the festival of Kilaruki. That’s when we’ll kill them. But until then we’ll be cordial. We’ll obey their commands. Until then we’ll lull them to sleep. But when the moment comes, we’ll take it. We’ll kill every last one. And we’ll take back the land of our forefathers.”

  While he was lashed, Manco replayed the words in his mind. The pain and humiliation were excruciating, but it was tolerable. He clenched his teeth and smiled through his grimace. And while the guards watched him through the night, Manco did not sleep, nor did he want to. Nineteen days he had to wait, and he did his best to keep still.

  But with Manco’s return, he had to accept the inevitable horror, and he saw it the next morning. And with his own eyes, he watched his beloved wife, Cura, fall into the arms of Gonzalo Pizarro. As they stared at each other the pain from Manco’s face was palpable and he seized from his teeth, but Gonzalo was unfazed by Manco’s threat and he continued to slap Cura across the face many times and each time he had done so, he laughed harder. Manco walked closer and stopped until he was about ten feet away from Gonzalo. He stared at Cura and cried almost as much as she did. But Gonzalo’s laugh was stronger. And all the rage that was settling into Manco’s body boiled up to his forehead and his entire face grew red. But Gonzalo only grinned.

  Keeping still Manco darted a stare into Gonzalo’s eyes for a long hard minute. Then Manco dashed towards him with a knife in his hand. He screamed and stabbed at the air, but before he got halfway, Manco was tackled and taken to the ground by Waman Poma and two other Incas. Manco screamed and pleaded, but Waman Poma merely nodded his head. Then Manco looked to see if Cura and Gonzalo were still present, but they had disappeared.

  All through the afternoon, Manco paced around to find Cura, and with Waman Poma following him, and the guards as well, Manco finally gave up his pursuit, only to yell out in shrieks of utter pain. His eyes grew wide and he breathed through his mouth and inhaled as hard as he could. Then as the sun faded and the stars lifted, he eventually calmed his nerves, but his hands still trembled. Manco wanted to be alone, but he knew that would be impossible. His two guards, and several other Incas, including Waman Poma, joined him. During the night, they enjoyed a meal of llama and potatoes, but Manco refused to eat. He just stared into the fire and concentrated on his breathing.

  As twilight approached the guards went in and out of sleep, but the Incas remained awake and spoke softly in the icy night. Manco spoke mostly to Waman Poma and they talked for several hours. Manco was grateful for Waman Poma preventing him from stabbing Gonzalo. But he was still enraged. It took a while but the logic of the night finally prevailed, and the dialogue Manco shared with Waman Poma proved to be a crucial one. Waman Poma reminded Manco that the plan was of the utmost importance. The plan superseded all things. Waman Poma knew if Manco had killed Gonzalo, the plan would be all for naught. He saw the moves ahead of time. He played the moves and sequences in his head, and each time he came up with the same conclusion. If Manco had killed Gonzalo, a slight rebellion would ensue, but only that. There wasn’t enough manpower to enable such a prolonged battle, nor was there enough strategic strength to compromise the very logistics of supplying an army. There wouldn’t be any hope of any kind. Although it was a righteous act to kill Gonzalo, it would be a devastating one. It would propel a losing game that would perpetuate itself. For if Manco had killed Gonzalo at that very moment, he himself would have been killed, and there would be no one to lead his people, and Cusco would forever remain in Spanish control.

  But Manco came to terms with it. And during the night, he stared up at the moon. It seemed smaller than it once was. Manco knew he was lucky, and with great reluctance, he nodded at Waman Poma then sighed, winced his face, and stared into the firelight. During the end of the night, Manco asked Waman Poma what had happened to Cura during his leave, and Waman Poma told Manco that she had been raped many times over and while he was gone Gonzalo held her as his possession. Manco was devastated and denied it several times, but it was only when Waman Poma confirmed the rumor to him that he accepted the truth.

  The shadows of the early dawn danced like they always danced, and Manco walked about the city in deep meditation. The thought haunted him for the remaining days, and on certain days, he didn’t even want to look at Cura or Gonzalo. He cried every night but he had to torture himself a bit longer. He had to wait.

  Twenty days. Twenty long and arduous days. And all Manco thought about was the plan.

  During that time, life in Cusco remained uneventful. For the Spanish, there was a general relaxed feeling of calm and boring routine. There was no mention of the progress of either Almagro or Francisco, nor were there any mention of further instruction from the Crown pertaining to jurisprudence or otherwise. The Spanish took to those days, just as any other. They reveled and drank. They seized the women and gambled. They shouted for no reason, and they prayed when they wanted to.

  But for the Incas, those twenty days were utter hell. All they could do was wait, for that was the only thing Manco commanded them to do. By the tenth day, their faces looked swollen. Their eyes turned red. And all could see the angst boiling inside them. The Incas walked with a slow excruciating crawl as if they were lepers. Manco himself showed little emotion. He spoke to his gods and tried his best to talk with Cura, but he only did so while in prayer. But what made the Incas gain confidence was that Cusco was slowly beginning to grow in numbers.

  As the days passed, more tribesmen entered the city, and they brought with them an excitement and enthusiasm that the Incas were in dire need of. They sung their songs and prayed to the sun, and pierced their ears and nostrils and decorated them with bones. But still they had to wait.

  On the fifteenth day, Hernando summoned Manco to his quarters. Manco approached the temple steps and was ushered into a small room that Hernando had transformed into his office. The translators gathered and Manco sweated profusely. Manco answered every question completely and nodded after he finished. The main question Hernando posed was the most obvious one: that of the odd, sudden surge in the city’s population. And Manco explained that they were gathered to celebrate, Kiraruki, the festival of the sun, their holy and annual ceremony.

  After the questioning was over Manco repeated to the translators and requested to Hernando that the tribesmen entering be treated as guests. After the translation Hernando stared into the fire, nodded, and the terms were accepted. Then Manco left the room and prayed throughout the night. There were five long days before Kiraruki, but soon the morning would come, and soon Manco would see what he and his people wanted to see for so long. They would see their redemption. It would be laced and woven with blood and tears, but it would be theirs and theirs alone.

  VII

  Then the morning came. The day of Inti Raymi. The Inca Festival of the Sun.

  Well before sunrise, the Incas were already dressed in their colorful garb, which they wore exclusively for Inti Raymi. In the icy night before, they held vigils by great fires. It rained for only a half hour, and afterward the air became cold and dry. The ground was muddy and gray but the Incas danced anyway. They danced and yelled and laughed, and in the morning, the sun shone bright and high. Many Inca children danced as the drums took
over. Their spirits permeated the air. The drums pulsated with loud bangs and bursts and snares and claps that boomed and pierced. And the Incas danced along.

  Their prayers were loud and powerful. They were filled with love. They were righteous and pure. The chants roared and echoed throughout the Andes.

  Morning elapsed to high noon, and it sounded as if the entire city vibrated. When it was all said and done, over a quarter of a million people gathered into Cusco for the ceremony, and all of them had flocked over and gathered to the main square. They continued to sing hymns and chants and they cheered when the sun broke away from the clouds.

  The Spanish stood guard as they watched the ceremony unfold. It was intense and impossible to ignore. The Spanish shared the same bizarre reaction that the Incas possessed when the Spanish celebrated their feasts of saints. They mounted on their horses and patrolled the gates and entrance points, and were ordered to allow the approaching tribesmen to enter the city. They gave the Incas and tribesmen plenty resistance, and they pushed and shoved as much as they could, but the tribesmen outnumbered the Spanish and they made their way through. The crowd grew and enveloped into a swarm, and soon the mass of humanity acted as if it were one enormous unit and Cusco was united in the spirit of Inti Raymi.