The Gold Eaters (26 page)

“If you won't keep it for yourself, Felipe, then keep it for me. So I don't gamble it away.”

Trusted again
(or allowed, at least) to visit Atawallpa now the Spaniards' fortunes have brightened so dramatically, Waman resumes his chess games with the prisoner. One afternoon he finds the Inca cross-legged on the floor, bent over a square of red cloth with coca leaves arrayed in patterns. In his right palm are other leaves, on which he blows a prayer then casts like dice.

Beside him is a young woman who gathers up each throw and prepares a new fan of leaves for Atawallpa's hand. She is young, slim, like the girls who served beer at the Inca's baths on the night before the slaughter. Months ago now, and they feel like years. The light is low, the windows screened. He can't see her face well. Yet she seems familiar. Maybe she was one of those at the baths. Or one who came in and gathered up the pieces when Atawallpa overthrew the chessboard.

Her poise, her straight back as she kneels, reminds him of Tika. But then so does every woman of her age and build. Often he has seen her—in doorways and fields; in shops, markets; crossing streets—the wishful foolishness of a lover whose love is lost, his cousin dissolving into a stranger whenever he gets near. He thinks of how his people all seemed alike when he came back from Spain. Same skin, same hair, same almond eyes. If, one day, he does see
Tika, would he know her? And would she know him, especially now, his face a ruin?
I believe the girl you mentioned may be alive.
He clings to this, spoken haltingly by that woman he questioned in Little River. Yet more than half the World has died. And there must be scores of cities like Cajamarca. Scores of Chosen Houses. Tika could be in any of them. Or none. The odds are against him; against her.

He has seen coca leaves read before, but never by the Inca. He should not be intruding on this ritual. It seems Atawallpa has not yet felt his presence, and Waman begins to catfoot from the room. The girl glances up, lowers her eyes quickly, makes a patting motion with a hand. He gets the impression that to slink out would be unwise, riskier than to stay. Besides, what can Atawallpa do to him—to anybody—now that One-Eye and his men are here?

He sinks to the floor behind them, catching some of the Inca's whispered words:
Mama Kuka, kuka kintu, kananchiktapas yachanki
 . . . Lady Coca, choice coca, you know the destiny of all . . .

While Atawallpa scries the leaves, the girl stretches an arm behind her towards Waman, beckoning him with fluttered fingers. He approaches softly, crouching, until their fingers touch. She pushes something into his palm. She folds his hand shut and pats it away. Now he should go.

He walks briskly down the street, hears the brass-bound door slammed shut by Pizarro's sentries. As soon as he's out of their sight, he opens his fist and looks. A thread. No knots, no encoded words. Only a plain blue thread plucked from the hem of her dress. A message; yet no message. Like a blank scrap of paper.

That night he can't sleep, the afternoon at the Inca's prison circling in his mind. She
must
be Tika. Who else would do such a thing, take such a risk? Or is it simply that the girl is desperate, seeking a new protector in case something happens to Atawallpa. As well it may.

The next morning goes by with agonising slowness. He paces in his room, wanders courtyards and halls, walks the city streets for miles, mind roiling, hardly aware where he is or where he's been. He returns to Atawallpa's quarters when the sun, well past the zenith, is touching a certain stone on the curved wall of the temple, the usual time for their games. The girl is not there. Only the Inca. And Pizarro's guards at the door.

Atawallpa takes the first game. Soon after they begin a second—a rapid slaughter of pawns—the same girl comes in with cups and a jug. She waits in a corner. Waman feels her gaze upon him. He tries to return it sidelong, when the Inca's eyes are on the board, but again she's in shadow and he can't see clearly. Just the glint of a silver brooch pinning her shawl.

“You have my permission to look at
me
, Waman,” Atawallpa says coldly, studying the chessboard. “But that does not extend to making eyes at my women. Luckily for you, things are not normal now. But soon they will be. Reflect on what I've said before. I can make you a great man. Or I can squash you. As for her”—Atawallpa nods at the girl—“she has no guardian but me. You risk her life with your eyes.”

Before Waman can recover and beg forgiveness, the Inca changes the subject to Pizarro and Almagro.

“I hear,” he says in a probing tone, “that the Machu Apu and One-Eye are fighting. So far only with words. But will it come to war between them, I ask myself, as it did with Waskhar and me? You know those men, Waman. What do you say?”

“I can't say, Only King.”

“Can't or won't?”

“I hear nothing beyond what everyone hears. Since Waskhar's death I've been mistrusted, kept away from weighty matters.”

“Then tell me what ‘everyone' is hearing.”

“Just what you know. That the two have fallen out over the metal.”

“What else?”

Waman's mind is on the girl, who must be Tika. He is certain now. But how to reach her?

He struggles to recall any news or gossip for the Inca. “Some say the Old One has persuaded Almagro that there's more gold in Cusco—much more than was brought here. Also, Hernando Pizarro is getting ready to leave for Spain.”

“He alone? Why not all?”

“I don't know, Sapa Inka.”

“What are they saying about me?”

“Most say you have fulfilled your promise and should be freed. Some say you can't be released safely until all the Christians reach their ships.”

“Do any want me dead?”

“I . . . I have heard one or two say this. Only a few.”

“Who?”

“I don't know them—men of Almagro's. With respect, I beg you, my lord, to bear in mind that everything I've heard is mere rumour and low gossip. Except Hernando Pizarro's preparations for going to Spain, which are plain to see. He's taking gold for their King.”

Atawallpa falls still. Only his eyelids move, nervously batting the lashes in an oddly girlish way. Waman has not seen this tic since the first days of the Inca's overthrow.

“You've spoken plainly,” the Inca says at last. “Come back tomorrow. We'll finish the game then. Keep your ears open.”

As Waman gets up, bowing and backing to the door, his head strays towards the girl. He reins it just in time.

“You needn't worry about her,” Atawallpa adds, undeceived. “She won't talk. She can't. She is
upa
.”

“She is simple, my lord?”

“Not simple. Struck dumb. This makes her useful. My women say
no word has passed her lips since the night the barbarians attacked. She was a novice in the House of the Chosen.

“That is all.”

The sun is slipping behind the mountains when Waman returns to his room on the back courtyard. Carpenters are sweeping up and armourers dousing their forge for the night. The place, he thinks, is starting to resemble a barrio of some Spanish town. Men are playing cards in doorways. Others are drinking, laughing. A fellow from Seville with faraway eyes and a mysterious air has set up shop as an astrologer. He tells fortunes, makes horoscopes, conjures messages from home, speaks with angels in a crystal. Waman has noticed Pizarro himself go in there. Also, at other times, Almagro. Atawallpa isn't the only leader scrying the future.

He lingers by the warm bricks of the forge, thinking over the afternoon. How can he contrive to pick up another message, if there is one? How can they talk? How can he even get a good look at her? Since hearing Atawallpa's parting words, half of him hopes she is
not
Tika. He has heard what happened when the Spaniards broke into the Chosen House after the massacre.

Waman can learn
nothing more. There are no more chess games with the Inca. Atawallpa's confinement is now solitary. The Commander and One-Eye have made up their minds. They will not leave Peru. Pizarro won't abandon his prize for hollow honours, like his cousin Cortés. Almagro is in a rush to advance south, where his fortune beckons from the city of Cusco and whatever lies beyond. Atawallpa is no longer needed; he must die. They will rid themselves of this northern tyrant now, and thereby befriend the southern side
in the Empire's civil war. In Cusco they'll find a new Inca to set in Atawallpa's place.

—

At the bottom of the usnu glides the vulturine figure of Valverde, flesh wattled by the highland sun, clutching a silver cross and breviary, overseeing the preparation of firewood around a stake at the foot of the stairway. Here he will burn the Antichrist alive.

It is late afternoon when Atawallpa is brought into the plaza. Pizarro, Almagro, and their officers form an avenue of dignitaries leading to the stake. Behind them stand hundreds more Spaniards, under arms, jostling for a view. The rest of the square is thronged by slaves, townsfolk, and Atawallpa's wives and courtiers, many weeping.

Waman, made to stand beside Pizarro, searches the crowd for Tika, eyes darting like a hummingbird, alighting on each likely face. If she is here he cannot see her. Or, rather, he sees a dozen Tikas everywhere he looks.

Late rays of sunlight are gilding the great square. The last act in the tragedy that began at this hour and place eight months ago is about to be played out.

The Inca, ankles hobbled, is brought up to the Old One and Waman. He is blinking in the glare, his skin almost as pale as a Spaniard's from being locked indoors so long.

“Where is your charity now?” Atawallpa demands, pointing his lower lip at Valverde. “If you burn me, will you not burn forever in your own god's house of fire?”

“Not if I offer you mercy, Lord Inca,” the Old One answers. “Mercy is an everlasting gift. Repent and become a Christian.”

“And if I do?”

“We won't burn you.”

Atawallpa brightens, though only for an instant.

“You will die by the garrotte instead—by throttling—a merciful end. And you'll go straight to Heaven and eternal life. These are the mercies I can give you.”

The Inca has foreseen something like this. “To understand your beliefs,” he says thoughtfully, “will take time. They must enter my mind. My heart. There is much to learn.”

“Ah, no.” Pizarro stifles a smirk. “There you're mistaken, Lord Inca. Father Valverde has spoken to you many times of our True Faith. All that remains is baptism. He'll baptise you now.”

The Inca is bareheaded, dressed in a simple white tunic and plain sandals, without any trappings of kingship except his bearing. He stands arms folded, stoic, rigid with outrage. And with dread, Waman thinks, seeing the eyelashes flutter again.

“If I do this—if I receive your god—you must promise me one thing. You must look after my wives, my children. There are seven little ones—four girls, three boys. They are in Tumipampa.” The Inca recites their names, showing the height of each one with his hand. At this a great surge of pity washes through Waman. He has not loved this man, but he has come to know him as much as any outsider could. He is filled with sorrow and disbelief at this injustice, and with fear—fear of what it may unleash upon the World. Water runs from his eyes. For Atawallpa, for Tika, for the times to come.

“Tell him to forget his brats and whores,” Valverde hisses at Pizarro, “and think instead of his immortal soul.”

“That I shall do, and do gladly, Lord Inca,” the Commander answers Atawallpa, ignoring the priest.

The Inca consents to be baptised—not to escape the flames, or to live forever in the Christians' heaven, but so his body will endure on Earth along with all the kings and queens before him.

Valverde approaches at once, pouring holy water on his head, scattering a pinch of salt and drops of chrism, hastening through the service, afraid his victim may yet change his mind. To convert this heathen monarch is a fine moment in the priest's career. And when reports of the doings in Cajamarca reach King Charles in Spain, the crime of regicide is more likely to be overlooked if the deed was merciful and pious.