B01AOKY60K

  IV

  In reality, Sardina’s dream wasn’t too far off. For on a calming afternoon near the shore of Lima, Francisco and Soto did exactly what the dream painted. They shared their thoughts. It would be their final conversation. It was Soto’s last favor.

  Soto concentrated his eyes on the ocean. In truth, he was waiting for his ship to arrive. Francisco watched the clouds scatter from south to east. He was wondering, scheming and plotting.

  They discussed what pieces to keep and what moves that needed to be made. Soto chose his words carefully and Francisco took note.

  “So you would put Alvarado in charge?”

  “I would.”

  “Then I will tell Hernando. But don't you think they have too much cavalry?”

  “Yes. Almagro's cavalry is considerable. But we have cannons and foot soldiers. And that’s a clear advantage. This is quite an opportunity you have, sir.”

  “I’m just worried it’s a trap.”

  “I don’t see it as a trap. Almagro held your brothers captive and did not capitalize on it. That mistake is Almagro’s and his alone. Now your brothers are free. And that’s why you have to strike now.” Said Soto.

  “This is a gorgeous opportunity.” Said Francisco.

  “No. It’s only an opportunity. I’m afraid that’s all it is. ” Said Soto.

  He continued.

  “In either case, Almagro’s a fool. You can’t let him get away with it. If you don’t take advantage of this, sir, you’ll be an even bigger fool. History never forgets.”

  It was only a matter of time. Soto stared at his fortune. Five caravans in all. It was all still there, and when he returned to Spain, he would be noted to be one of the richest men in all the world. He was merely waiting for his ship to arrive. He was merely biding his time.

  “So why are you leaving, Soto?” Francisco said.

  “I have my reasons. But I can't fight any more of your wars, sir. I can only fight my own. ”

  “Your own wars?” Francisco said. He tried not to laugh.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, Soto. I hope to see them someday.”

  Soto stared at the sea. It was still empty, and he waited another day. And with that, the favor was met, and all were left to see what would happen to Cusco.

  V

  “Coronado yawned. My throat was dry and I drank what was left in my chalice. It wasn’t much, but I drank it all. I knew my story was starting to bore him. I was so close to the end. I wanted to finish it. But I could tell Coronado was losing his patience.

  He wanted the imminent. He wanted the climax. He wanted to hear about Cusco. I couldn’t blame him, but it wasn’t my story. I wasn’t a part of it. But Coronado wanted to hear it nonetheless.

  “So what happen to Cusco?”

  “I wasn’t there, Coronado. I was in the jungle.”

  “But you must have heard.”

  “All I know is what I’ve heard. What I imagined.”

  Coronado pressed his fingers upon his lips. Then he interjected.

  “So the burden was the very thing they fought for?” He said.

  “What burden?”

  “Cusco.”

  “Why do you say it was a burden?”

  “What else would you call it? Cusco was the prime reason for all that occurred, was it not? With all that power, with all those characters. Cusco had to be fought after. It seemed inevitable. Don’t you think so?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t tell what he was driving at. Then again, I was very tired and the wine was very strong. I could tell from his squirming that he wanted to know exactly what happened in Cusco, blow by blow. But I simply wasn’t there.

  I wondered what version of the story Coronado heard, whether it was from a Pizarro supporter or from an Almagro loyalist. Perhaps the story Coronado heard was from someone indifferent to the families. Perhaps he heard the story from a priest or from someone who merely heard it from someone else. But whoever he heard it from, Coronado need it to be repeated. He needed validation, and I couldn’t give it to him. In the end, there were only two stories. Two sides. The Almagros fought for what was theirs, as did the Pizarros. My story really didn’t matter to Coronado.

  So the “burden” of Cusco, as Coronado suggested, was left to linger in our imaginations. What happened in Cusco is only what I heard, but what I heard, I still can't believe.”

  VI

  And in Cusco, as on the board, all of the pieces were assembled. The rumors were true. The Almagros returned from their disastrous campaign, and without hesitation, they took over the entire city. In sprinting fashion, the Almagros came back to Cusco just like they came to Cajamarca: angry and poor. With an obscene momentum the Almagros took over Cusco in less than an hour, and afterward, Almagro issued the arrest of both Hernando and Gonzalo. In even less time the Brothers were both imprisoned in a cold dungeon, which was located below the temples.

  The Almagros held court and ransacked the Pizarro side of the city, and in the evening, they dined on their favorite table. They feasted on roasted pig and ripe sweet pears, and they drank and finished the wine that they found hidden in the Pizarro’s lower chambers. Drunkenly, the Almagros ascended to the steps of the tower, digested their meal, and looked down at the sprawling city. For the moment they were glad, but they were not delighted. In the back of their minds, all they could think about was their next move. With the Pizarro Brothers ransomed, communication with Francisco was the next logical step. But the Almagros were too tired. They spent too long of a time in the desert, and they knew it, and they also knew that it would probably take the rest of their lives to fully recover.

  With a look of sheer confidence and pride, Almagro handed Diego the sword and patted him on the shoulder. Though Almagro didn’t purge Diego further. He knew his son understood. It was their city now, full and complete, and it was their obligation to defend it.

  More days passed, and the inevitable question of what to do with the Brothers still went unanswered. The Almagros initiated their own productive procrastination upon the matter, and they focused on more important things. Almagro’s men cleaned up the city and disposed of the bodies of slaves and Pizarro loyalists. The smoke and debris still hovered in the air and the smoldering ashes still surrounded most of the city. Then the slaves and treasurers went to work and transported all the gold across the boundary lines until there was not even a smidgen of gold left in Pizarro’s quarters. As the treasurers made their calculations, Almagro ordered all of his men to be paid a sufficient bonus for their efforts and their loyalty. The bonus was quite a hefty sum. Indeed, it was psychological redemption for his men, but the gesture not only was a comfort it also was also a validation of Almagro’s respect. Even before this occurrence, Almagro’s men took to him very much like a father, and they knew that another battle was likely to happen.

  Almagro himself remained quite reticent and he kept to himself most days. His mind was torn in ambiguity and later sheer ambivalence, and still later pure apathy. He prayed. He swore. He ate. He drank. He vomited. He pissed. He defecated. He kissed his chalice. But mostly he drank.

  As for the imprisoned Pizarros, it was clear that Almagro would keep them there indefinitely. Almagro refused to pay either Gonzalo or Hernando a visit and left that detail to his son. Each morning, Diego delivered both brothers their meal, which was always a raw slab of llama’s liver and a whole dead rat. It was with great pleasure for Diego to watch the Pizarros feast through his view from the iron bars, but he never said a word to either of them. He merely stared and spat at them whenever he felt it was necessary.

  Days fell into weeks and the city of Cusco was very much the Almagros. The celebration undoubtedly lingered, but so too did Almagros’ great discipline. The distinct decorum of the Almagros evaporated and soon the city lay in absolute filth with excrement and rotted food scattered about. Almagro himself sauntered through the city with a sword in one hand and a full chalice in the other. He slurred his words, struck any Inca wo
man he pleased, and later had his way with them. During one night, he challenged his men to a dual. None took to his offer at first, but as the wine settled down three men approached Almagro, and took to his offer. The fighting ensued and Almagro started by kicking the first man in the groin. For the second man, he simply cut off his fingers. And for the third man, Almagro took a brick and bashed it over the man's head. Needless to say, there were no other challengers. When the scene was over, some asked why he did this, and the general answer was that this was Almagro’s cordial sign of camaraderie and stewardship.

  It was a delightful surprise to many of Almagro’s men to see him behave in such debauchery. But in truth, many knew Almagro lost his sanity well before they recaptured Cusco. Some said this was Almagro’s compensation for struggling in the desert as long as he did. Others touted that Almagro was just an old man who knew he was going to die. But whatever was the case, the drunken days and nights continued. They went on and lingered and grew more strange and sad. Almagro himself proclaimed that the entire month was to be a month of jubilation. Masses were canceled and sobriety was outlawed. There was no time for guilt. Relaxation was the mandate and the freedom to be damn fool was permitted and encouraged. And in the words of Almagro himself, these exploits were “earned” and not granted, and it made the absurdities justified.

  Almagro’s men knew they would wake up eventually. They knew they would recover and sober up.

  But now wasn’t the time.

  Another day passed, and Almagro killed a stubborn Inca slave, slicing off the slave’s limbs with his sword. Almagro then took his chalice and cupped the dripping flesh blood and drank the blood with a splendid burst of satisfaction. When asked why he did such a thing, Almagro’s response was that he was trying to recapture his youth. Some of the men laughed. Others merely gave blank stares and shrugged their shoulders.

  When Almagro was bored he counted his money. He lay on top of a heap of gold, swam in it, and on one occurrence he slept on the pile for an entire afternoon. He didn’t talk to many and he carried on drinking liberally with a disgusted red face. To those who prayed, Almagro put a foot up their rears and shouted, “Your liberties are well secured! They’re well secure, you dishonest sons of bitches. Stop groveling!”

  The most unhappy man drank more and more, and Almagro stole the hearts of his men with shouts to the sky and odd obscenities that went unchecked and uncontested. But his face was still marred with pain.

  On one night, Almagro stabbed a horse in its face, and he appeared to smile greatly when he did so. Then he screamed at the dead horse and shouted: “This is my city, goddamn it. This is my son’s city! This is the city’s city! You dare to oppose?! Come forward then, you bastards! Come forward!”

  But like most drunks, the memory of the present eluded the Almagros and the harsh reality inevitably caught up with them in the worse way possible, and on one fine day when Diego went to serve the bastard brothers their meal he found their cells completely empty. Diego also found four guards dead on the floor. Immediately he reported the escape to his father, but Almagro was neither shocked nor appalled, and he refused to say a word. Had a deal been made with Francisco? Had the Brothers escaped on own their volition? Or had they gotten help by others?

  Almagro wouldn’t tell and he remained silent and stern.

  Then he readied his sword and sharpened his blade with careful strokes. Then he looked to his son, Diego, and handed the sword over to him. Almagro then climbed up the balcony, looked down at his beloved Cusco, then looked east and waved his hands in a come hither motion.

  And all knew what the gesture meant.

  He was inviting the inevitable.

  A month or so passed and in an undisclosed location, Hernando Pizarro commanded his troops in preparation to take back Cusco. Along with Hernando was his brother, Gonzalo, and Alvarado, a man of considerable reputation and exemplarily military skill. Both brothers were very much alive and they were both bewildered by the fact. The three men came together and delved into their upcoming plans of taking back Cusco. They schemed for days and formulated strategic tactics of how the battle would go down. They talked about flanks and decoys. They talked about cavalry entry points. They talked about the cannons and where to rendezvous once they took over the city and they talked about what would happen if they were to retreat. And when they grew tired of strategy, they talked about their misgivings and again about their general disbelief that they were still alive.

  The Brothers, in particular, talked about Almagro and wondered again and again of the ease of their escape. It was as if Almagro wanted such a challenge, as if taking over the city wasn’t enough. One could argue that Almagro wanted to prove that he could also defend it, and keeping the Pizarros alive was his only alternative of making such an event to happen. As if he wanted one more battle. As if he wanted all the world to know on a grand scale. It could also be said that Almagro still believed in a sense of fair play, and even in his drunkenness keeping the Pizarros captured only meant that the Crown would deem him an unruly patriarch. If that were the case, some could argue that he was one of the noblest characters in this story. Yet, the unyielding fact remained, and in the end, it was Almagro’s downfall, for he forgot the blinding obvious. He forgot he was dealing with the Pizarros.

  And on the next day, he got his wish.

  During the night prior to the battle, the Brothers and Alvarado again went over their plans for attack. The men in their camp received word that in the morning they would take back Cusco, and as the word spread excitement and anticipation took hold of the men, and they stayed awake the entire night.

  In the morning, Almagro smelled the fires of the Pizarro company. He refused to eat or drink and fasted throughout the day. His eyes were strained; red and horrid. And his face remained wrinkled and gray. He clutched onto a broken arrow with the end of the spear digging into his knuckles, and he clenched his fist until he bled. Then he watched his army gather, and he spoke calmly and gave out his orders to Diego, who repeated the orders to the assembling cavalry.

  On the other side of the city, three miles away, Hernando, Gonzalo, and Alvarado went over their final assessments, shared a bottle of wine with each other and stated a final prayer. Paying homage to their brother, Hernando and Gonzalo made a line in the dirt with the heels of their feet. They stared at the line for the longest of time, and when their mediation was over they nodded at each other and crossed the line and pointed their swords east towards Cusco.

  About three miles south was a place they called “Salinas”. It was a vat and pitted territory which sole purpose was the manufacturing of salt. It was guarded by low-level ground and a giant marsh, and the land proved to be the main focus of the battle.

  At noon, the armies assembled and took the field. Drums rolled. Trumpets blared. And with the first strike from Hernando’s falconets, the battle began.

  The two armies charged at one another at a blistering speed, and blood spilled from one end of the field to the other. The cannons roared. Blast after blasts shook the ground. Swords, horses, and men piled on top of each other.

  A rain of fire came from the arquebuses. They were then followed by the crossbowmen and later the heavy cannons. Again flying death above landed on very good men. Shards and balls of fire sailed in streams, and the ground burned in scattered flames.

  Then the infantries charged at each other with a resounding blitz of rage, and it was clear that Almagro’s men had the advantage. The armies paced and trotted. Again, the timeless sounds of clangs and pings of clashing armor and the cuts and slashes of swords meeting flesh grew to their respected crescendos. Almagro’s men managed to pin the Pizarro advance and stopped them from resurfacing.

  “Santiago! Santiago!”

  It was the battle cry of both sides.

  The swing of momentum slid back and forth and men from all sides screamed with bursts of rage as the battle continued.

  Decapitated heads of both horses and men rolled on along the salty
sand, and afterward, the land resembled a field of rotting cabbage. All in Cusco watched the battle from afar, and there was no indication what army was winning. Both slaves and masters had a daunting look about their faces, wondering the outcome.

  No quarter was given that day from either side. Those who tried to surrender and begged for mercy were gutted along their stomach, and the wounded that wept for care were at first discarded then promptly executed. Almagro, himself, led a series of charges along the perimeter and defended his position beside the Inca slopes. Although out of breath and certainly in great pain, Almagro could be heard on high, screaming shouting and repeating, “This is not your land, Pizarros!” And Diego followed the song in harmony.

  But as an hour passed, the truth of the matter prevailed.

  Almagro’s army was simply out outnumbered and victory soon became an impossibility. They were surrounded. And in the swirl of smoke, bodies and charging horses, the Almagro army dwindled to less than half.