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The Incas stayed with Manco and the tomb and continued to watch the wondrous vistas of the sacred peaks. They navigated their thoughts in reflection. To the East the sun escaped in thick, drifting black clouds that emerged larger with falling lightning. To the West the trail back to Cajamarca, and great, verdant jungles of Vilcabamba. The source of all life. The mystery.

  Manco wanted to make a speech, but he decided not to. The moment was too grand, too real and pure. He knew that the love of his people was understood, that he had earned it, and that his people would never let him down. He knew that words were only wasted breath. But most importantly, he knew the spirits of the Incas, including his brother Atahualpa, were guiding him and his people to better times. Sacred times. They held strong to Manco’s promise, and they were defiant to uphold that promise with the highest resolve.

  In the falling rain, the flutes played on, and afterward the Incas danced again to Atahualpa’s lilting song. The drums picked up the rhythm, and again the Incas cheered and their faces lit up with unfettered joy.

  When the song was over, Manco’s people cheered and stood resounded. Their faces were of absolute courage. They were ready for another battle. They didn’t care how long. They didn’t care how many lives they would lose. They would defend their lands. They would risk their lives once more. They were ready.

  IV

  “Coronado took another sip from his chalice. I joined him. The room began to spin. But Coronado never seized asking his questions. Somehow he remembered.

  “So what of Almagro?”

  "What of him?"

  "How long was he gone?"

  "I really don't know. I wasn't with him."

  "I'm not saying you should know, Sardina."

  "You were about to say it, though."

  "I was. Grant it. You're very quick, Sardina. But if I'm to understand the story correctly, Almagro left Cusco for El Dorado. Did he not?”

  "Yes. Yes, he did.”

  "But how long was it before he returned?”

  "You would have to ask Almagro himself."

  "But that’s absurd. I can't, Sardina."

  "Of course, you can't. So you’re left to assume. Like I did. Like I continue to do.”

  "And El Dorado?"

  "All I know is that he never found it. I would be surprised if anyone did."

  “But why did Almagro return to Cusco?”

  “He didn’t find what he was looking for.”

  V

  So the Almagros set forth their expedition to El Dorado, and off they went, soon to be kings and princes of the land they conquered. They headed south. Then they headed southwest, and followed the Andes down, down the many slopes and rocky terrain. Altogether there were a hundred horses and a hundred riders, several other hundreds on foot, and several dozen servants and slaves. The first days were bright and positive as expected. The men’s’ faces were warm and their spirits high. There was a general mutual feeling amongst all of the men; the feeling that El Dorado was just a mile or so down; the feeling that history would repeat itself like it did in Cajamarca and Cusco.

  To occupy the silence some of the men sang gaudy songs while others kept to themselves and rode about with a watchful eye. Although all of the men were of the same experience, many of the men who joined Almagro were not present in Cajamarca. They merely were spectators. They merely heard the stories with wide eyes. The men who had been through Cajamarca, however, possessed a confidence as they rode on their horses. They knew what to expect and they were guided by their instincts and memories, and, with watchful but hopeful eyes, they rode about in a dignified manner.

  A week passed and smiles remained. But after a month, the smiles faded. The land became hillier, and undoubtedly the rocks became more jagged and more difficult to pass. Every day the sun shone down, but it provided no warmth. Brisk winds pierced through their armor, and it was clear to all that summer had died. The once verdant lush of green began to decay into a pale yellow, and the further they rode the more the land seemed to be stripped of life.

  Then it began to snow. It started soft and coated the land. Then it grew to a considerable, blinding pace. But the men rode on, right through. More weeks passed and the men rode on in a trance and it always seemed as if the sun was dying.

  They looked about, but all was the same. Some had thought they reached a desert. Some knew for sure.

  For Almagro, many things were on his mind and many times he drifted. He thought about luck in spiraling general terms. That charismatic luck that found its way in his life. The luck that he trusted Pizarro for that final time and it had finally paid off in Cajamarca and Cusco. Almagro and his son didn’t say much to each other, but when they did, they made sure the words counted. Almagro was proud; proud that the family name would live on with Diego. Almagro then thought of his own father as well, and being in the middle of the generations, he could see history and legacy all spelled out for him. It all made sense.

  Dark nights and breathtaking morning skies passed. The expedition continued.

  “Are we close, father?” Said Diego.

  “We’re close.” Said Almagro. “Just beyond.”

  And just beyond they trekked once more, awaiting to be crowned kings of all the land.

  The sun blazed in from the horizon and blinded in the noonday, and with it, Almagro drifted once again. From the time well before Cajamarca, many assumed Almagro as a most unhappy man. He certainly was that for the majority of his life. For the majority of his life, he invested too much and gained too little, and it wasn’t until Cajamarca and Cusco that he admitted that his risks paid off. And as he rode on to El Dorado, he held his head high as if to say that it was all worth it.

  After a month, even Almagro grew exhausted. But the dream still lingered. As he rode, he gave into the seize-less rhythm, dipped his head, and fell into deep slumber. As he blinked, the vision came into view and Almagro was enraptured.

  He envisioned El Dorado in all its glory. His eyes looked up and down the city’s streets. It was grander than Cusco with gold paved every which way. In the visions, the Golden Man sat on a throne and embraced Almagro’s men and welcomed them. The Golden City made Cusco and Cajamarca look like peasant fields. And indeed, every rumor was true. There was gold as far as the eyes could see. It was terrifying poetry. Then the Golden Man disappeared, and with the throne empty, Almagro finally sat perched and watched his world from on high. The Golden City went on forever and reached heaven itself. It was concrete, real and tangible. Almagro touched each stone. He clutched each chest. Then he looked to the sun and stared at the face of God. And with the stare he received the confirmation. The confirmation that the sacrifice and struggle were assuaged. And this indeed was the end point. The end point that God intended, but more important the confirmation signified that these lands would be Almagros and his alone. Diego would have his share of course, but the worth of the whole land would be in the family name and with it the legacy be set for centuries and then embedded timeless. The world and all its people would all know the power and grandness that were the Almagros. El Dorado would finally quench their thirst. And Almagro would die a happy man.

  The dream lived on. The dream of kings. The dream that made men live.

  But then Almagro awoke, and in a flash, the vision evaporated.

  Almagro sputtered and almost fell off his horse. His mouth filled salvia, and he dipped his head once more, only to see his men languish on. From the corner of his eye, he saw Diego keep vigilant on his horse. His eyes grew heavier and the graying sky conquered the rest of the day.

  What was left was the reality, and it was even more horrific than one could imagine. The reality was naked and scalped and left for dead. The reality was the horrific, endless desert that was there for all to see. The reality was that they had trekked fifty miles along the coast and found absolutely nothing. The reality was the desert. The reality was a most astounding disappointment. And it was all around.

  In one month, the Almagro’s expedition found absolute
ly nothing. In two months, they found even less. The cold had finally gotten to their bones, so much so that they were aware of it, so much so that the men started to lose fingernails. The sun and snow blinded their eyes as they inched closer in their daily march, but still they did not find even a trinket of silver.

  Hunger was a daily problem and the men ate what they could find. They went out in sands and desolation and brought less and less back with them. It had gotten so desperate that rabbits were now luxury meals, and snakes and rats proved to be primary staples of their diets.

  However, the Inca guides and servants fared less than their rulers. The servants’ faces were frozen and they walked with their backs hunched over as they carried their masters’ loads. The weaker guides were wrapped in chains in lines of twelve and were located to the far end of the line. Many froze to death in the icy nights. Many wanted to die but couldn’t find the courage. Dozens others grew violently ill and dropped to their deaths out of sheer exhaustion. But this did not prevent the Spanish from lashing them, cursing at them, and declaring them useless, and as time wore on there were fewer servants and slaves to discipline, as more and more bodies had found permanent homes along the cold hard ground.

  As more days passed, all that the expedition ran into was more of the same: more of the nothing that they were accustomed to, and the desert gave no quarter. More snow fell, and when it stopped all that was left was a bare blue crisp sky, and though the sun seemed as if it were boiling, it still gave no warmth, and El Dorado was nowhere to be found. Almagro’s men were tired and lifeless, but each day they were resolved to search further. Each day was harder than the last. Never did they imagine how arduous a journey it would become. Never did they think they would see such nothing.

  What made matters worse were the hostile tribes that the expedition encountered. The first tribe proved to be a formidable opponent. And the second tribe was even more hostile. In each encounter, diplomacy on either side was not offered, and with each encounter, the Almagro’s thwarted the threatening tribes with crossbows and hand cannons. The Spanish then proceeded to take the tribesmen as slaves and then asked them relentlessly of their knowledge of El Dorado, but still there was no word that such a place ever existed, and they left the Spanish to mire in their own thoughts.

  More tribes followed suite, but the result remained the same. With each hostile tribe Almagro’s mantra of “Always be in communication, but always strike first” was executed into full effect. Though by implementing this process as frequently as they did, the Spanish got very tired very soon.

  The expedition met more tribes further south. These tribes, however, were peaceful and hospitable. The Spanish interpreters asked of any other tribesmen in the area, and whether they were noble or hostile, but most importantly they asked of El Dorado. After much commotion, two tribesmen confirmed a golden land existing not far away. Upon hearing this the morale of Almagro’s men grew, and immediately their trust of the tribes were validated. Consequently, the Almagros’ hope inflated, and they assembled a meeting with their lieutenants and sergeants. They talked quickly and most of their orders were fairly easy to comprehend.

  In a span of a week, the expedition encountered a dozen linking tribes that were said to be located near the south ridge. Having consulted each other amount the enormity of the population, the Almagro’s decided it was best to wait out and begin a negotiation with the tribe in hopes they would find information of El Dorado’s whereabouts. But the negotiations went nowhere, and later the tribes provided no such information of such a land existing. In fact, they scoffed at the Spanish and mocked them by grinning at them and cackling loudly. As Almagro approached the scene, he shared a long, enduring smile with one of the tribe’s main chief. Then when the salutations were over Almagro took out his sword and decapitated the chief in one swift motion. Almagro then screamed at the interpreters to repeat his demands. And the councilmen, chief-men, and their cohorts remained bewildered and complied to Almagro and his men the best they could. But Almagro remained wholly unsatisfied.

  During the span of an entire month, the expedition came across more tribes that now boasted that they knew of El Dorado, but it always ended the same way. The Spanish asked about El Dorado’s whereabouts, but when diplomacy could not be met, the tribes instantly ambushed and attacked and the Spanish laid waste on them.

  Each day blended into the next, and each day was horribly the same.

  When the fighting ceased, the commands were made and the Spanish burned everything in sight. They burned the tribes’ huts. They burned their women. They burned until there was nothing human left. In the plunder, they took whatever they could find. They took in the tribes’ beast of burdens and slashed everything else. They searched underneath the tribes’ corpses and smashed their clay pots. They searched through the ash and smoke, yet time after time Almagro’s men retrieved nothing of value.

  During nights, Almagro voluntarily stayed awake on watch. Many thoughts swarmed through his mind and he used this time to figure out and gnawed at the pervasive problems. On one particular night, he received word of Manco’s revolt. A part of him was alarmed, but he kept his emotion intact and wasn’t overly panicked. He remained calm and stared along the depths of the desert, searching as if somehow the answer was right there and all he needed to do was stare and the answer would come to him. He stared for hours but his mind remained blank, and no answer came.

  So instead of thinking, Almagro looked at the faces of his men. The general expression on each man’s face was of absolute doubt, but as the more time passed, and the more tribes they ran into, doubt turned into disgust. The men would have cursed the air, but the truth of the matter was that they were so exhausted that they didn’t even have the energy to curse. They were starved. They earned their rest, but they were forced to trek on. For Almagro, a rest meant a devastating thing. A rest would mean the men would have time to think, and that was something he couldn’t afford, for everything, their purpose and the reality of their situation would be magnified. And it would be a devil of a problem to have.

  The next day, the men went on and trekked the familiar never-ending lands. There was only more desert. Only more white, endless sands. Only more emptiness. There was sun and space. And nothing else. But Almagro still clung to the hope. There was something in his conscious that told him otherwise, to stay the course, and to reap the fortunes of all their agony. Something told him that they were still close. That El Dorado was only a day or two away. He held on to that devastating hope, and emotionally he was in the same mental state he was in before he reached Cajamarca. He had to endure a vague and skeptical expectation that he really couldn’t understand.

  But the facts of the matter outweighed all the hope in the world. The facts of the matter were that the tribes that they ran into became more hostile than the last. The fact was that their march continued to be an ordered a slow painful suicide.

  But still the expedition went on.

  Another day came and a dense fog rolled in. By early morning, Almagro’s men came across a large tribe with a staggering population. The Spanish were welcomed with shrieks and hollers, and in the thick of the fog, the tribe threw stones and javelins. Throughout the morning, the tribe attacked the Spanish at their weak points and lashed out their ambush with great, vicious precision. The sounds of clanging metal and jabbing, piercing wood permeated throughout the morning and well into the afternoon. And at the end of the day, the tribe managed to stand their ground and forced Almagro’s men to retreat.

  The next day, however, Almagro’s men returned and, having mended their wounds and their resolve, they rushed to the tribe and methodically took their revenge. Though the tribe continued to injure the Spanish by throwing their spears in organized patterns of attack, the end result, however, was predictable slaughter. Blood stained the sand, and the women and children of the tribe fled for safety. It was followed by the capture of the tribe’s leaders and later their execution.

  After the slaughte
r, the questions began. Among the corpses, the men searched for any living souls and when they found the wounded, they questioned and tortured them and relentlessly inquired of their knowledge of El Dorado.

  Throughout the afternoon, the questioning continued. The Spanish monitored their rage, but it didn’t last very long. They screamed and repeated, convinced they would finally find their answer.

  “El Dorado! El Dorado, you bastards! Where is it?!”

  The Spanish saw it work in the past. They saw it work with Atahualpa in Cajamarca. They saw what pointed swords and bargaining for souls could lead to. It was almost natural. They saw it work in such fast and great succession, and they repeated it almost as if an obligatory prayer. It was a prayer of torture.

  But it didn’t work. And the horrible reality once again rang clear as church bells. The tribesmen knew nothing of El Dorado.

  As the day came to a close, Almagro did most of the questioning, and in harmony was Diego. The Almagros pressed their swords amongst the tribe’s leaders throats and asked their designated questions.