The first war was the water war. Pedro suspected that the other was stealing while he slept, and the other accused him of drinking like a beast. When the water gave out and the last drops disputed with fists were spilt, they had no alternative but to drink their own urine and the blood they got from the only turtle that was to be seen. Then they stretched out to die in the shade and had only enough saliva left for muted insults.
Finally rain saved them. The other thought that Pedro could well reduce by half the roof of his house now that turtle shells were so scarce: “Your house is a turtle-shell palace,” he said, “and in mine I spend the day all twisted up.”
“I shit on God,” said Pedro, “and on the mother that calved you. If you don’t like my island, get lost!” And he pointed a finger at the vast sea.
They decided to divide the water. From then on, there was a rain deposit on each end of the island.
The fire war came second. They took turns tending the bonfire, in case some ship passed in the distance. One night, when the other was on guard, the fire went out. Pedro cursed and shook him awake.
“If the island is yours, you do it, you swine,” said the other and showed his teeth.
They rolled in the sand. When they tired of hitting each other, they resolved that each would light his own fire. Pedro’s knife lashed a stone until it produced a few sparks; and since then there is a bonfire at each end of the island.
The knife war came third. The other had nothing to cut with, and Pedro demanded payment in fresh shrimp each time he lent the knife.
Then the food war and the shell-necklace war broke out.
When the latter war ended in an exchange of stones, they signed an armistice and a border treaty. There was no document, since in this desolation not even a cupay leaf can be found on which to scribble anything, and furthermore neither can sign his name; but they marked off a frontier and swore by God and king to respect it. They tossed a fish into the air. Pedro drew the half of the island that faces Cartagena; the other, the half facing Santiago de Cuba.
Now, standing at the frontier, Pedro bites his nails, looks upward as if seeking rain, and thinks: “He must be hiding in some cranny. I can smell him. Mangy. In midocean and he never bathes. He’d rather fry in his own grease. There he goes, yes, on the dodge as ever.”
“Hey, asshole!” he yells.
For answer, the thunder of surf, the racket of gulls, the voices of the wind.
“Ingrate!” he shouts, “Son-of-a-bitch!” and shouts until his throat bursts, and runs from one end of the island to the other, backward and forward, alone and naked on the sand without anybody.
(76)
1532: Cajamarca
Pizarro
A thousand men sweep the path of the Inca into the great square where the Spaniards wait in hiding. The multitude trembles at the passage of the Beloved Father, the One, the Only, lord of labors and fiestas; the singers fall silent, and the dancers freeze up. In the half light, last light of the day, the crowns and vestments of Atahualpa and his cortege of nobles of the realm gleam with gold and silver.
Where are the gods brought by the wind? The Inca reaches the center of the square and gives the order to wait. A few days ago, a spy penetrated the camp of the invaders, tugged at their beards, and returned to report that they were no more than a handful of crooks from the sea. That blasphemy cost his life. Where are the sons of Wirachocha, who wear stars on their heels and send forth thunders that provoke stupor, stampede, and death?
The priest Vicente de Valverde emerges from the shadows and goes to meet Atahualpa. He raises the Bible in one hand and a crucifix in the other, as if exorcising a storm on the high seas, and cries that here is God, the true one, and that all the rest is nonsense. The interpreter translates and Atahualpa, at the head of the throng, asks: “Who told you that?”
“The Bible says it, the sacred book.”
“Give it here so it can tell me.”
A few paces away, Pizarro unsheathes his sword.
Atahualpa looks at the Bible, turns it over in his hand, shakes it to make it talk, and presses it against his ear: “It says nothing. It’s empty.”
And he drops it to the ground.
Pizarro has been awaiting this moment ever since the day he knelt before Emperor Charles V, described the empire as big as Europe that he had discovered and proposed to conquer, and promised him the most splendid treasure in human history. And even earlier: since the day when his sword drew a line in the sand and a few soldiers dying of hunger, bent with disease, swore to follow him to the end. And earlier yet, much earlier: Pizarro has awaited this moment since he was dumped at the door of an Estremadura church fifty-four years ago and drank sow’s milk for lack of anyone to suckle him.
Pizarro yells and pounces. At the signal, the trap is sprung. From the ambush trumpets blare, arquebuses roar, and the cavalry charges the stunned and unarmed crowd.
(76, 96, and 221)
1533: Cajamarca
The Ransom
To buy the life of Atahualpa, silver and gold pour in. Like a swarm of ants down the empire’s four highways come long lines of llamas, and people with shoulders bent under their loads. The most splendid booty comes from Cuzco: an entire garden, trees and flowers of solid gold, and uncut precious stones, and birds and animals of pure silver and turquoise and lapis lazuli.
The oven receives gods and adornments and vomits bars of gold and silver. Officers and soldiers shout to have it divided. For six years they have had no pay.
Of each five ingots, Francisco Pizarro sets one apart for the king. Then he crosses himself. He asks the help of God, who knows all, to see justice done and asks the help of Hernando de Soto, who knows how to read, to keep an eye on the scribe.
He assigns one part to the church and another to the military vicar. He handsomely rewards his brothers and the other captains. Each soldier of the line gets more than Prince Philip makes in a year, and Pizarro becomes the richest man in the world. The hunter of Atahualpa assigns to himself twice as much as the court of Charles V, with its six hundred servants, spends in a year—without counting the Incas’ litter, eighty-three kilos of solid gold, which is his trophy as general.
(76 and 184)
1533: Cajamarca
Atahualpa
A black rainbow crossed the sky. The Inca Atahualpa didn’t want to believe it.
In the days of the fiesta of the sun, a condor fell lifeless in the Plaza of Happiness. Atahualpa didn’t want to believe it.
He put to death messengers who brought bad news and with one ax blow decapitated the old prophet who announced misfortune. He had the oracle’s house burned down and witnesses of the prophecy cut to pieces.
Atahualpa had the eighty sons of his brother Huáscar bound to posts on the roads, and the vultures gorged themselves with that meat. Huáscar’s wives tinted the waters of the Adamarca River with blood. Huáscar, Atahualpa’s prisoner, ate human shit and sheep’s piss and had a dressed-up stone for a wife. Later Huáscar said and was the last to say: Soon they will kill him as he kills me. And Atahualpa didn’t want to believe it.
When his palace turned into his jail, he didn’t want to believe it. Atahualpa, Pizarro’s prisoner, said: I am the greatest of all princes on earth. The ransom filled one room with gold and two rooms with silver. The invaders melted down even the golden cradle in which Atahualpa heard his first song.
Seated on Atahualpa’s throne, Pizarro told him he had decided to confirm his death sentence. Atahualpa replied: “Don’t tell me those jokes.” Nor does he want to believe it now, as step by step he mounts the stairs, dragging his chains, in the milky light of dawn.
Soon the news will be spread among the countless children of the earth who owe obedience and tribute to the son of the sun. In Quito they will mourn the death of the Shadow That Protects: puzzled, lost, memory denied, alone. In Cuzco there will be joy and drunken sprees.
Atahualpa is bound by the hands, feet, and neck, but still thinks: What did I do to
deserve death?
At the foot of the gallows, he refuses to believe that he has been defeated by man. Only gods could have done it. His father, the sun, has betrayed him.
Before the iron tourniquet breaks his neck, he weeps, kisses the cross, and accepts baptism with another name. Giving his name as Francisco, which is his conqueror’s name, he beats on the doors of the Paradise of the Europeans, where no place is reserved for him.
(57, 76, and 221)
1533: Xaquixaguana
The Secret
Pizarro marches on Cuzco. Now he heads a great army. Manco Cápac, the Incas’ new king, has added thousands of Indians to the side of the handful of conquistadors. But Atahualpa’s generals harry the advance. In the valley of Xaquixaguana, Pizarro captures a messenger of his enemies.
Fire licks the soles of the prisoner’s feet.
“What does this message say?”
The Chasqui is a man experienced in endless trottings through the icy winds of the plain and the scorching heat of the desert. The job has accustomed him to pain and fatigue. He moans but won’t talk.
After very long torment his tongue loosens: “That the horses won’t be able to climb the mountains.”
“What else?”
“That there’s nothing to fear. That horses are scary but do no harm.”
“And what else?”
They make him tread on the fire.
“And what else?”
He has lost his feet. Before losing his life, he says: “That you people die, too.”
(81 and 185)
1533: Cuzco
The Conquerors Enter the Sacred City
In the noon radiance, the soldiers make their way through the cloud of smoke. A whiff of damp leather mixes with the smell of burning, while the clatter of horses’ hooves and cannon wheels is heard.
An altar rises in the plaza. Silk banners embroidered with eagles escort the new god, who has his arms open and wears a beard like his sons. Isn’t the new god seeing his sons, battle-axes in hand, pounce upon the gold of the temples and tombs?
Amid the stones of Cuzco, blackened by fire, the old and the paralytic dumbly await the days to come.
(50 and 76)
1533: Riobamba
Alvarado
Half a year before, the ships anchored in Puerto Viejo. Inspired by promises of a virgin kingdom, Pedro de Alvarado had sailed from Guatemala. With him went five hundred Spaniards and two thousand Indian and Negro slaves. Messengers had reported to him: “The power that awaits you makes what you have seem like dirt. To the north of Tumbes you will multiply your fame and wealth. To the south, Pizarro and Almagro have now become the masters, but the fabulous kingdom of Quito belongs to no one.”
In the coastal villages they found gold, silver, and emeralds. Loaded with quick fortunes, they set off for the mountains. They faced jungles, swamps, fevers that kill in a day or leave one mad, and terrifying rains of volcanic ash. In the Andean foothills, snow-storms and winds that cut like knives broke the bodies of the slaves, who had never known cold, and many Spaniards left their bones in the mountains. Soldiers dismounting to tighten their horses’ girths remained permanently frozen. The booty was thrown to the bottom of ravines: Alvarado offered gold, and the soldiers clamored for food and shelter. His eyes burned by the blinding snow, Alvarado kept charging up the trail to cut off with one sword-blow the heads of slaves who fell and of soldiers who wished they hadn’t come.
More dead than alive, with muscles iced and blood frozen, the toughest ones managed to reach the plateau. Finally today they have hit the royal highway of the Incas, the one that leads to Quito, to paradise. No sooner do they arrive than they find in the mud fresh hoofprints. Captain Benalcázar has beaten them to it.
(81 and 97)
1533: Quito
This City Kills Itself
Benalcazár’s men break in, unstoppable. Thousands of Indian allies, enemies of the Incas, are spying and fighting for them. After three battles, the die is cast. Already beating a retreat, General Rumiñahui sets fire to Quito. The invaders won’t enjoy it alive or find any treasures except those they can dig from graves. The city of Quito, cradle and throne of Atahualpa, is a giant bonfire between two volcanos.
Rumiñahui, who has never been wounded in the back, turns away from the soaring flames. There are tears in his eyes, from the smoke.
(158 and 214)
1533: Barcelona
The Holy Wars
From America come the heralds of good tidings. The emperor closes his eyes and sees sails approaching and savors the smell of tar and salt. The emperor breathes like the ocean, high tide, low tide; and he blows to speed the ships swollen with treasure.
Fate has just awarded him a new kingdom, where gold and silver abound like iron in Vizcaya. The astounding booty is on its way. With it he will finally be able to calm down the bankers who are strangling him and pay his soldiers—Swiss pikemen, German mercenaries, Spanish infantry—who never see a coin even in dreams. The Atahualpa ransom will finance the holy wars against the Islamic half moon, which has reached the very gates of Vienna, and against the heretics who follow Luther in Germany. The emperor will fit out a great fleet to sweep Sultan Suliman and the old pirate Red-beard off the Mediterranean.
The mirror reflects the image of the god of war: damascene armor with chiseled insertions at the edge of the gorget and breastplate, feathered helmet, face illumined by the sun of glory—bristling eyebrows over melancholy eyes, bearded chin thrust out. The emperor dreams of Algiers and hears the call of Constantinople. Tunis, fallen into infidel hands, also awaits the general of Jesus Christ.
(41 and 50)
1533: Seville
The Treasure of the Incas
From the first of the ships, gold and silver are tossed onto the docks of Seville. Oxen drag the loaded vats in carts to the Chamber of Commerce. Murmurs of wonder arise from the crowd assembled to witness the unloading. There is talk of mysteries and of the conquered monarch across the ocean.
Two men, two drunks, emerge arm-in-arm from the tavern that faces the docks. They join the crowd and ask shrilly where the notary is. They are not celebrating the treasure of the Incas. They are flushed and glowing from a session of good wine and because they have made a very cordial pact. They have agreed to exchange wives, you take mine, who is a jewel, I take yours, although she isn’t worth much, and they are looking for the notary to make it official.
They pay no mind to the gold and silver of Peru; and the dazzled crowd pays none to the castaway who has arrived along with the treasure. The ship, drawn by a bonfire, has rescued him from a Caribbean islet. His name is Pedro Serrano, and nine years before he had swum to safety from a shipwreck. He uses his hair to sit on, his beard as an apron, has leathery skin, and hasn’t stopped talking since they took him aboard. Now he keeps on telling his story amid the uproar. No one listens.
(41 and 76)
1534: Riobamba
Inflation
When news of Atahualpa’s gold reached Santo Domingo, everyone went looking for a ship. Alonso Hernandez, dealer in Indians, was among the first to take off in a hurry. He embarked in Panama and on arrival at Tumbes bought himself a horse. In Tumbes the horse cost seven times more than in Panama and thirty times more than in Santo Domingo.
The climb into the mountains has put Hernandez back on foot. To complete the journey to Quito, he buys another horse. He pays ninety times the Santo Domingo price. For 350 pesos he also buys a black slave. In Riobamba a horse costs eight times more than a man.
All is for sale in this realm, even the flags smeared with mud and blood, and everything is priced sky-high. A bar of gold is charged for two sheets of paper.
The merchants, newly arrived, defeat the conquistadors without drawing a sword.
(81, 166, and 184)
1535: Cuzco
The Brass Throne
On the knees of the little king, vassal to another king, lies no gold scepter but a stick shining with bits of colored gl
ass. Manco Inca wears the scarlet tassel on his head, but the triple gold necklace is missing from his breast, where the sun does not gleam, nor do the resplendent discs hang from his ears. The cloak of gold and silver threads and vicuna wool is missing from the back of Atahualpa’s brother and enemy and inheritor. From the banners beaten by the wind the falcons have disappeared, replaced by the eagles of the emperor of Europe.
No one kneels at the feet of the Inca crowned by Pizarro.
(57)
1536: Mexico City
Motolinía
Fray Toribio de Motolinía walks barefoot up the hill. He carries a heavy sack on his back.
Motolinía is the local word for someone poor and afflicted. He still wears the patched, ragged habit that gave him his name years ago, when he arrived walking barefoot, as now, from the port of Veracruz.
He stops at the top of the slope. At his feet extends the enormous lake and in it gleams the city of Mexico. Motolinía passes a hand over his forehead, breathes deeply, and drives into the ground, one after the other, ten crude crosses, branches tied with rope. As he drives them in, he dedicates them:
“This cross, my God, is for the diseases that were not known here and that rage so terribly among the natives.”
“This one is for war, and this for hunger, which have killed as many Indians as there are drops in the sea and grains in the sand.”
“This is for the tribute collectors, drones who eat the honey of the Indians; and this one for the tribute, which the Indians must sell their children and their lands to pay.”
“This one is for the gold mines, which stink so of death that one can’t go within a league of them.”
“This is for the great city of Mexico, reared on the ruins of Tenochtitlán, and for those who brought beams and stones on their backs to build it, singing and crying out night and day, until they died of exhaustion or were crushed by landslides.”
Genesis Page 10