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  Soon the air was filled with smoke and the fog hovered in white plumes of falling ash. Then Almagro led a final charge but to his horror, the charge achieved absolutely nothing. He looked behind him and nearly of his men lay dead on the ground with their horses accompanying them.

  Then the Pizarro army took over Cusco’s gates, and in the matter of half an hour, they surrounded every inch of the city.

  In the smoke, many of Almagro’s men retreated. The Pizarros sent out a quarter of their army and chased after the men, but after two miles they gave up their pursuit. The surviving soldiers slashed away in the trail of smoke and ash. Another dark plume of smoke emerged from the distance, and many of the Pizarro soldiers claimed to see Diego and others dash and escape through the jungle.

  The final hour passed and Cusco was now completely under siege by the Pizarros, and by then the battle was officially over.

  Smoke billowed and the cannons seized fire. As dusk settled, the last of Almagro’s men surrendered. The fires were once again scented with the smell of human flesh and it permeated for miles in the form of dark plumes of smoke.

  Throughout the battle and the days that came later, sunlight was hardly visible, and what little light shone only came in noonday slivers. Then the bells of Cusco chimed. The monks gathered and marched up and down Cusco with lanterns and incense while body after body were blessed and buried and cross after cross were hammered to the ground.

  The next day the prisoners were issued forward. There were twenty prisoners in all and Almagro was the very last one. He was paraded back to Cusco in chains. He looked gray and dead and he was tied by his hands and pushed to the head of the line. Pizarro’s victors pointed at him and spat at his face. Hollers and shouts soon followed. Every piece of his soul was broken and all was left was his lifeless body.

  Stale stagnant hell followed, and Almagro was set into the same dungeon that he put Hernando and Gonzalo in, not so long ago. The Pizarros ransacked the city once more and took back their gold. The cruel twist of fate was warming and welcoming to the Pizarros, and unlike their predecessor, Hernando and Gonzalo met Almagro several times in the dungeon.

  Words were exchanged and swears were shouted. Self-possessed and enraged, Almagro screamed so much he could be heard from the temple steps. He pleaded over and over and asked what happened to his boy, Diego. But no one answered him, and in truth, no one knew.

  A week passed and Almagro could no longer scream. Convinced that his food was poisoned, Almagro refused to eat and he became weak within a few days. Enraged by this Hernando requested a servant enter into the dungeon and serve Almagro a plate of gold instead of food. As Gonzalo put it: he was merely “giving to Caesar what was Caesar’s.” But as the hierarchy of the Crown heard of this, Hernando immediately stopped the ritual and eventually gave into the pleas and ordered that Almagro be brought actual food.

  Gonzalo, however, upheld the orders and went out of his way to do the feeding himself. It was an intoxicating ritual and each day, and with great pleasure, Gonzalo went down into the dungeon with a plate filled with gold and proceeded to throw it at Almagro’s head. When he got close enough he reached his arms through the bars and slapped Almagro across the face, but Almagro gave no resistance nor retaliation. He was simply too weak.

  In the back of Gonzalo’s mind, torturing Almagro was merely practice and he imagined how he would torture Manco had he found him, and in truth, Gonzalo was merely waiting for Almagro’s execution. He knew that he would eventually return to the jungle to continue his hunt for Manco. But for the time being Gonzalo remained in Cusco. His family needed him, and their business still remained unfinished.

  With each visit, Gonzalo gave new threats, taunts, and casts of aspersions. Almagro failed to utter a word, and with each visit, Gonzalo drank an entire bottle of wine and urinated upon Almagro’s iron bars.

  “So how was El Dorado, Almagro?” Said Gonzalo. “Hmmm? Was it golden?”

  “Don’t even dare to dream, Almagro. It’s not worth it.”

  But still Almagro gave no retaliation, and the gold in his cell continued to pile up.

  And Gonzalo continued his taunts.

  “I just thought of a great idea, Almagro. Just now. Maybe we should put all this gold to good use and shove it up your ass. Perhaps it will make diamonds someday. Seems like a good investment to me. What do you think? We have all the time in the world, you know. We’ll split the royalties with your son. Well, that’s of course if we find him.”

  One would think such torture would only last so long, even for the torturer. One would think. But Gonzalo did this ritual every day for thirty straight days, and each day he grew more and more satiated with perverse enjoyment.

  On a bright day in June, Francisco returned to Cusco, and upon his arrival, he was greeted by his brothers and the members of the Royal Assembly of Spain. He was informed of all the events beforehand from scouts and close allies. He approached the court with his esteem amiability and went about the dungeon to visit his long time friend. When he got there, Francisco was appalled to see Almagro laid upon the cold floor. At first glance, he looked very dead, but upon further examination Francisco asserted that Almagro was merely asleep.

  In terms of legality, Hernando issued document after document of Almagro’s crimes to the assembly and managed several signatures from main dignitaries for a general trial. But the trial was constantly delayed by those who opposed the execution, most of them consisting of Almagro’s close friends, and Almagro was held indefinitely in his cell. During the deliberation, there were those who pointed out the unfairness of the imprisonment of Gonzalo and Hernando. In vote after vote, there were more dissenters, and day after day, Almagro’s apologists vocalized their opinions, but oddly about a dozen of those individuals found themselves poisoned and deathly sick days later. However, as a week passed the trial concluded and afterward it was almost certain that Almagro would be executed, and when it was official the signatures were finally penned.

  After two more trials and hours of deliberation, Almagro was found guilty. Almagro was indicted on several counts, but the most damning count was the indictment of War against the Crown, which penalty for such an offense was instant death. The counts issued were: guilty were those of levying war against the crown and thereby occasioning the death of many of his Majesty's subjects, of entering into a conspiracy with the Inca, and, finally, of dispossessing the royal governor of the city of Cusco. On these charges, Almagro was condemned to suffer death as a traitor, by being publicly beheaded in the great square of the city.

  And on the 8th of July, 1538, Almagro’s day of execution finally came to pass. The square was filled with personal of the like; dignitaries and elder statesmen, Inca slaves, and appointed leaders all gathered in somber ceremony. It felt very much like a funeral because in very much respect it was. The only difference was that the corpse was still alive.

  Several armed guards surrounded the plaza, doubling over in staggered formation across the houses and temple complexes. The crowd continued to gather, but the longer they waited, the more they knew something was not right. The square remained empty. There were no participates anywhere in sight and as word spread the crowd grew demonstrably restless and angry. The news had broke that there was to be no grand spectacle to be shown that day, and by orders of Hernando, the execution was held inside the dungeon.

  In the dungeon, all the Pizarros gathered inside Almagro’s cell. The smell was awful and the dungeon was dimly lit with sparse torches that were aligned in a row, placed on holders along the cold gray stonewalls. The Pizarros waited several minutes and whispered prayers of their own and waited for the priest to finish with the sacraments of Almagro’s last confession and last rites.

  At noon, Almagro was escorted by four guards and was brought forth out of his cell and into the corridor. They stripped him of his rags and dressed him in a fresh white shirt and afterward, he was strapped once again with iron chains and forced to his knees. Then the executioner ente
red. He wore a black hood and a gold cross necklace. He made his way over and as the priest said his last prayer, the execution escorted Almagro and laid his head against a slab of stone.

  Then the unhappy man spoke his last words.

  “Bastards! Bastards! All you Pizarros! I’ll see all of you in hell!”

  Almagro screamed and slurred. He spat and pointed.

  “No matter how hard you think, no matter how much you've forgotten. The truth is clear as God! You're a fraud, Francisco. As are all your brothers. The truth is this city. My city! You've found it with my men! You've found it, riding my horses! This is my city! My son's city! Not yours! Not your brothers!”

  “So why did you leave it?” Said Francisco.

  Almagro again turned reticent and Francisco’s response went unanswered. Francisco unleashed his sword, but then quickly put his sword back in his cloak.

  “You’ll still be in my prayers, Almagro,” He said.

  Then Francisco turned his back and walked away.

  “Pizarros!! May you burn in hell!!! All of you!!”

  The signals were made. The executioner approached the garrote, and Almagro screamed his last. With a heavy thud, Almagro’s head dropped down and rolled on the floor. The blood dripped and sprayed all over and formed a deep and muddy pool. The witnesses proceeded to leave the dungeon with heavy sighs and sullen faces. The only souls who remained were the priest, the executioner, the undertakers, and Gonzalo.

  Later in the afternoon, Almagro’s corpse was transferred to the great square of the city, but then it was immediately removed. His remains were auctioned off and came into the possession of his friend, Hernan Ponce De Leon. The next day Almagro was laid to rest in the solemn church of Our Lady of Mercy, where the Pizarros appeared among the principal mourners.

  After the funeral, the Pizarros moved to the court area of the square and held a private meeting with each other, and for the entire evening they shared each other’s company, and throughout the night, they dined and ate their final meal. It felt very much like old times with Francisco at the helm and Gonzalo and Hernando by his side. Afterward, Orellana and a few trusted other men were also present. When all were assembled the Brothers made a final gesture. They left an empty chair and lit a candle for the memory of their brother Juan. And by then, all knew that this would be the Pizarros’ last meal in Cusco.

  Members of the Crown’s dignitaries watched on as the Brothers consulted one another, and as Francisco requested none of them were invited to the table. Some of the dignitaries had sympathetic eyes, others glared at the Pizarros with utmost disgust, and the members of the Crown’s court held their own meal on the other side of Cusco. Words were exchanged, but they were only of the obvious manner, mostly regarding the rule of lands and taxation of new found govern-ships, but all kept a wide eye and wondered about the Pizarros and what moves they would make.

  Through the course of their meal, the Pizarro’s talked about Spain and their past. There was little mention of Almagro and his son, and although they promised themselves not to talk about business, that promise was broken several times.

  Before their meal, they prayed for guidance, and when their prayers finished they discussed what would happen to the city once everything was settled. Hernando would still be in charge of Cusco and its surrounding hamlets, Gonzalo would continue his search in the jungle for Manco, and Francisco would depart in the morning to reign in his beloved Lima.

  For their appetizer, they ate fried bananas and aguajes. Gonzalo inhaled his portion while Hernando and Francisco savored theirs. They shared bottle after bottle of Almagro’s wine, and they winced at each other, stating that it was better than nothing.

  Then Francisco talked about Spain in a regretful, spiteful tone. He raised his glass and started his speech.

  “This is home, brothers. If you wish to go back to Spain, I will not prevent you to do so. As for myself, I wouldn’t go back even in a coffin.”

  Francisco drank more wine and wanted to finish his speech, but he decided not to. Instead, he settled in his chair and spoke calmer, for he was well aware that there were most likely spies lingering in the darkness, and he told his brothers to choose their words carefully.

  Then the servants returned to the table, and finally, the courses had arrived. A dozen plates of roasted lamb and artichokes were presented, along with smoked fish, and then finally the main course was served: a stuffed pig that was seared for two days underneath palms and glazed papaya. Hernando smacked his lips and savored and Gonzalo tore through his portion and requested more.

  For the rest of the night, the Brothers ate and drank and wrapped themselves in reverie, and each of them knew that they were finally kings of their own doing.

  Throughout the meal, the Pizarros refused to discuss any other matters regarding the hypothetical, especially the obvious. The obvious was too painful, too complex and daunting for them, and the Pizarros ignored discussing any of it. The obvious was the state of Almagro’s son, Diego. Had he died, it would have been a moot point, yet had he survived a whole heap of tumultuous trouble and complication would certainly follow. The Brothers all knew this would be a serious problem. The other obvious subject was that the news of Almagro’s death spreading throughout the New World and the Old. It would only be a matter of time for the Crown to appeal a ruling and hold a possible trial for Hernando, and it also would only be a matter of time before the Crown would meddle in their affairs. As a result, of Almagro’s execution, the Pizarros knew that they would have to be even more vigilant and careful of who they spoke to. Conspirators and revenge would certainly be inevitable, and the rest of their lives would be dictated by fear. They knew all these things. They knew of all the hypotheticals.

  But the Pizarros refused to discuss the matter.

  The meal was more important.

  In the morning, the Brothers shared a final embrace and disbanded once again. And as promised, Francisco went back to Lima, Hernando took back his helm in Cusco, and Gonzalo departed back to the jungle in his search for Manco and El Dorado.

  There would be more stories, of course, but in the end, that was Cusco. And for the Pizarros they were terribly aware of what horrible things were to come, so they prepared as desperately and privately as they could, departed, and went their own way.

  And in their memories, each Brother recalled to themselves the image of the prior night’s meal and they thought long and hard why it was so important. And for each Brother, the reason remained the same.

  It was the Cusco they wanted to remember.

  VII

  “Coronado remained unsatisfied. Too many questions went unanswered. He couldn’t help but to ask again.

  “So what of Diego? Is he still alive?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “It appears no one knows.”

  “I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

  “ I can’t either.”

  “That’s the Pizarros’ business. It’s not mine anymore.”

  “Forgive me, Sardina. I don’t mean to pry. But what happened to him? What happened to Manco Inca?”

  Manco. I knew I couldn’t tell Coronado the whole truth. If I did, he wouldn’t believe me, less he would arrest me for treason or negligence. The truth was certainly not one he could comprehend or even fathom. The truth? I refused to delve into, for I, myself, did not understand it. I left the truth discarded as I did my dreams. The truth was in the jungle. It was hidden and secure with Manco and his people. It was pristine and likely never to be heard or seen again. The truth was in Manco’s eyes. That’s all I’ll know for sure.

  No. I told Coronado what I thought he would buy. It seemed all he could afford.

  “We didn’t find him. We didn’t find Manco.”

  At first, he was appalled at the answer. He winced then turned his head, but I assured him with a firm nod.

  “How long did you search?”

  “Many months. It might have a year.”

  “
A year?”

  “It might have been. It felt like it.”

  It might have been less. I just said it to sound profound. I knew my story had run its course. This one anyway.

  We shared another jug of wine and talked about other memories, of Spain and horses and women, but my mind remained unsettled. We were relaxed and quite drunk, and I noticed that Coronado grinned uncontrollably. He started to slur his words and his ears and face turned bright red. It upset me and I tried not to look at his face, so I stared at the flame and saw it flicker. The room felt much warmer. There was a great silence, as none of us said a word for quite a long while.

  Although my body was at complete ease in Coronado’s company, my mind was not. My mind went deeper than I wanted it to, and in the silence, I could hear the birds again. Soon the horrendous hums of the insects returned, and I could feel them bite my hands. I could see the river roll and scuttle. I could feel it turn, and feel the wind cut my face. I could feel Manco’s stare. That long primal stare that I still see in dreams and nightmares. I felt that stare again and again.