The Light of Machu Picchu Read online

  The Light of Machu Picchu

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  TITLE PAGE

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  PART 3

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  PART 4

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  GLOSSARY

  COPYRIGHT

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  Cuzco, 1 May 1536

  No one took any notice of Gabriel Montelucar y Flores squatting at the corner of Gonzalo Pizarro’s cancha. It was approaching noon.

  The tunic he had been wearing for weeks was grimy enough not to draw attention, and he had rubbed clay into his cheeks to camouflage his blond stubble. To the Spaniards, he looked like any other squalid Indian in rags, one of the many who now thronged Cuzco’s alleys. And with his square hat with its odd, pointed angles pulled low over his face, he looked, to the Cuzco Indians, like yet another peasant from Titicaca. A small bronze club hung from a leather strap under his unku: and in this humble weapon he had invested all his hope.

  Gabriel had arrived in town at daybreak, having traveled by night to avoid the endless stream of warriors called to arms by Manco and Villa Oma. He had walked from Calca without halting. He had become lost once or twice in the darkness, and his journey had taken longer than it should have. But his rage and suffering had driven him on, denying him any rest.

  Only now, as he squatted at the base of the vast, sun-warmed wall, did Gabriel become aware of the hunger and fatigue that was making his limbs stiffen. Yet the thought of heading off in search of a meal and a rest never once crossed his mind. His eyes remained fixed on the cancha’s door. He would have time enough later to eat and sleep – if those needs still had any meaning by then.

  He was here to kill Gonzalo. It was his sole remaining mission.

  * * *

  For the better part of two hours, he saw only servants and a few courtesans coming and going from the Governor’s brother’s house. For Gabriel, they were for the most part new faces, men whose demeanor and dress were still redolent of Spain: they stamped their heels hard on the dusty ground with all the manifest arrogance of recently arrived masters.

  Gabriel was extremely tired: he could barely keep his eyes open. Sometimes he trembled from thirst and hunger. Yet nothing on earth would have convinced him to give up his vigil so that he could find food and water. He fantasized about the moment when he would strike Gonzalo, at last ridding the world of the man’s wickedness. He took a few coca leaves from the cloth pouch slung round his neck, next to his skin under his tunic, and chewed them deliberately until his hunger faded.

  The dwarf’s terrible tale still lingered in his mind: ‘Gonzalo entered Anamaya’s room while she slept. She only woke when he already had his hands on her. She cried out. They fought. Manco wanted to kill him on the spot, but Anamaya feared that the Strangers would seek their vengeance against the Emperor. So instead, we fled Cuzco before dawn…’

  Gabriel had been turning these abhorrent words over and over in his mind for days. The words had become images that inspired an icy hatred in him, a fury that fired his nerves more than physical hunger or thirst. With each breath he took, he savored his vengeful plan as though it was nectar. His eyes remained wide open, his swollen fingers tight around the hilt of his bludgeon.

  * * *

  Gabriel sweated in the afternoon heat. The light and the warmth of the sun befuddled him, and eventually he fell asleep, his mouth full of dust, before Gonzalo had come out of the house. He sank into a nightmare: he saw Anamaya, cold, distant from him, her face hardened with determination. She wrapped her arms around her gold husband and said to Gabriel:

  ‘We must take up arms against the Strangers – against you – because only our love and courage will keep the Mountains and our Ancestors from slipping into the void. I shall be at my gold husband’s side when he fights, for that is my right and proper place. You must distance yourself from me, my love…’

  He wanted to protest, to explain to her that they couldn’t confront one another as though they were enemies. But although his lips moved, no words came out. He made a heroic effort to be heard. He begged, imploring Anamaya to soften her hard gaze. Nothing. No sound, no cry emerged from his mouth. He woke so suddenly that he heard his own sob. Haunted as he was by the vision of Anamaya, he didn’t immediately recognize his surroundings.

  The feeling of helplessness that Gabriel had experienced in his nightmare followed him from sleep into wakefulness. And then, as though driving a dagger deeper into his own chest, he recalled the answer he had given Anamaya after their passionate night together at Calca:

  ‘So, we must fight one another. If during the battle your place is at Manco’s side rather than mine, Anamaya, then it means that I have become a “Stranger” in your eyes. And if that’s the case, then my place is with the Strangers.’

  Anamaya’s lips had trembled with hurt. Stroking his cheek, she had murmured:

  ‘You are the puma, my beloved. You are the only man who can reach me, whether here in this world or in the next. You are the only one who can touch my heart and show me the joy of the world.’

  Gabriel smiled, not realizing that tears were running down through the cracked clay that covered his cheeks.

  Yes – there was no doubt that she loved him as much as he loved her.

  And yet, it was impossible between them. The distance was too great: the sad, alienating realities standing between the sorceress wife of an Inca lord dead for many years past and a Stranger who was nothing, even among his old brothers-in-arms, were too many and too strong.

  All that remained for him to do was to kill Gonzalo.

  And it would be a welcome gift from his destiny if he were to die at the same time as his enemy.

  * * *

  What Gabriel had been waiting for finally happened shortly before night enveloped Cuzco.

  A great hullabaloo woke him from his reverie. Terrible cries rang out through the alleyways. Gabriel sat up, his knees cracking, his thighs painfully stiff. A huge pig emerged from a nearby street, its mouth wide open – an enormous, hairy swine as black as night, a true Andalusian cerrano, weighing fifty pounds at least. It bared its canines, fearsome as those of a wild bear and sharp enough to gut a horse.

  From behind it burst a herd of other hogs – at least thirty of them, running with their heads down, squealing as though their throats were being slit. The males stormed straight ahead, crashing their heads into the concha’s wall, while the big-bellied sows dragged their udders through the dust. A dozen terrified piglets added their shrill cries from behind and scurried between the legs of the inept, yelling Indians who were trying as best they could to herd the foul-smelling pack.

  These mud-splattered peasants – recently promoted to swineherds – thrashed their long sticks through the air; yet they did not dare use them to strike the pigs’ rumps. Rather, they seemed rea
dy to bolt in terror each time a piglet bumped into them. A crowd of locals, gathered at a judicious distance, looked on, laughing at this strange cavalcade.

  Gabriel let out a roar as he bounded into the middle of the alleyway. He kicked a few plump pig buttocks, grabbed a young male by its ears, and so halted the chaotic flow of pork. The pigs stopped dead in their tracks, instantly ceased their squealing, raised their snouts, and gazed around complacently.

  The swineherds, flabbergasted, gazed suspiciously at the newcomer. Gabriel greeted them in Quechua to reassure them. But when he asked where the animals were bound, he met with silence. He realized that his accent must have bewildered the Indians as much as his attire, the dried mud flaking off his face, and the green coca juice dribbling from his lips. Eventually, one of them pointed at Gonzalo’s house.

  ‘They’re for the Stranger. They’re his animals. He had them brought from Cajamarca. He plans to eat them.’

  The man seemed amazed by the idea, though his tone remained deferential. In a flash, Gabriel understood that chance was smiling upon him.

  ‘I shall help you,’ he said, ‘I know how to manage these beasts.’

  * * *

  It still took unusual effort to get the entire herd through the cancha’s narrow trapezoid door.

  And once in, the pigs continued to cause quite a commotion: the excited animals alarmed the Indian servant girls, bolted around the courtyard, knocked over and broke several jars, and startled the horses that were being groomed.

  Gonzalo’s house hadn’t changed much in the two years since Gabriel had last visited it. Solid doors now divided the rooms, doors finely worked by Spanish carpenters, and a bridle rail had been set up in the courtyard.

  Gabriel abandoned the pigs and stood in the centre of the yard. He had only been there a short while when he heard shouts and laughter approaching. He recognized that hated voice.

  A small group of Spaniards appeared, among them Gonzalo who was wearing a ruffled shirt, velvet breeches, and shining boots. The other men were a couple of his courtiers. They took no notice of Gabriel, mistaking him for an Indian, and continued their frivolous play. One of them grabbed a young servant-girl by the waist, upended her, and brought her face to face with the fiercest piglet, ‘introducing’ them. Before the young hog had a chance to charge her, however, Gabriel whipped out his studded club and brought it down hard on the idiot’s arm, forcing him to release the young girl.

  ‘By the blood of Christ!’ cried the fop. ‘You damned monkey, you almost broke my wrist!’

  Gonzalo and his mates were furious. They made to strike the stranger, but when Gabriel threw back his hood, they stopped dead in their tracks. He rubbed away some of the mud from his cheeks with the back of his hands, revealing who he really was.

  After the initial shock, however, Gonzalo quickly recovered his old sarcastic aplomb.

  ‘Now isn’t this a pleasant surprise! My friends, allow me to present to you Gabriel Montelucar y Flores, who has come with the swine. Well, my dear fellow, it seems that you have found your proper place at last!’

  The others had already unsheathed their swords. Gabriel ignored them.

  ‘Rumor had it that you had disappeared, run away or even died,’ continued Gonzalo, hitting his rhetorical stride. ‘But no, here you are, as alive as can be – and as filthy as ever, I find. Am I to understand that my dear brother Francisco has at last decided to be done with you?’

  Gabriel’s eyes shone with violent rage. Gonzalo and his side-kicks instinctively took a couple of steps back.

  ‘Hell awaits you, Gonzalo,’ snarled Gabriel, swinging his club. ‘The day has come for you to take your place there.’

  ‘Holà! If you think that you’re going to frighten me with that… implement!’ guffawed Gonzalo.

  ‘I’m going to crush your balls with this implement, Gonzalo. You’re out of luck. I’m not one of those who waits for God to punish scum of your sort. I shall have the pleasure of doing it myself.’

  Gonzalo’s companions tried to disguise their fear, frowning fiercely. Gabriel lunged forward. His bronze club clashed against their swords, and he thrust them aside with a fierce back-handed swipe. Gonzalo jumped back and pulled a dagger from his breeches. He made a short, awkward stab at Gabriel’s arm. But his weapon sliced through thin air and, meeting no resistance, he lost his balance. Gabriel ducked to avoid the other blades slashing down at him and he simultaneously dealt Gonzalo a severe blow to the thigh.

  Gonzalo crumpled in a heap, screaming in pain. Gabriel made to continue his attack, but a sword cut through his unku and hissed past his ribs. He rolled to the ground as the two Spaniards still standing whipped their swords back and forth through the air above him. He held them off with his club, but its handle, repeatedly gashed by their blades, was weakening.

  Gabriel thought of the horrible powerlessness that he had seen so many times when Inca warriors had had their weapons smashed by Spanish steel. Like them, he would soon have nothing with which to defend himself. But suddenly an idea came to him.

  He let out an enraged cry and windmilled his club like a sling before flinging it at his nearest enemy’s face. The Spaniard didn’t have time to dodge and the bronze bludgeon slammed into the side of his head, smashing his jaw and splintering his bones with a loud cracking sound. The man collapsed, unconscious before he hit the ground. The other man froze in terror. Making the most of his adversary’s temporary immobility, Gabriel dove onto one of the piglets that had been panicked by the fight, picked it up, and brandished it at arm’s length, like some strange, wriggling shield – just as his assailant recovered his senses and lunged forward to run Gabriel through. The sword plunged through the animal as though its flesh was butter, and became embedded so deeply that the weapon stuck fast. Heaving with all his might, Gabriel flung the piglet across the courtyard. The sword twisted deeper into the young hog, tearing the poor animal’s guts out, and the beast squealed in agony as it landed with a thud. Gabriel kicked the now disarmed coxcomb in the gut, disabling him instantly.

  He threw himself at Gonzalo and grabbed him by the throat like some demented demon.

  ‘It’s over, Gonzalo,’ Gabriel growled. ‘It’s all over for you – the world has no use for your kind!’

  Hypnotized as he was by the sight of the eyes popping out of Gonzalo’s all but asphyxiated head, Gabriel didn’t hear the voices nor the footsteps approaching from behind. A steel-capped boot slammed into his ribs, and it was surprise as much as pain that made him lose his breath.

  He let go of Gonzalo’s neck and fell across his enemy’s legs. Another blow, this one to his head, almost knocked him out before he had a chance to pick himself up. He was hardly conscious of someone holding his hands behind his back. His rage and frustration gave him one last burst of energy. Gathering all his remaining strength, Gabriel tried to stand, hoping that whoever was pinioning him would finish him off for good.

  But then the back of his neck exploded in pain, and he fell into blackness.

  * * *

  The liquid dark became first of all a confused red before slowly brightening into a lucid agony. Gabriel’s head felt as though someone was hammering nails into it. He was surprised to discover that he could feel his hands, and that they obeyed him. He ran his fingers over his face and opened his eyes, letting them adjust to the now blinding light. He took stock of his surroundings.

  He was lying on a beaten-earth floor. He recognized the room: it was the same one that he had stayed in a long time ago now, before Don Francisco had ordered him to leave Cuzco.

  Still groggy, Gabriel sat up.

  A man as round and large as a barrel was carefully hammering closed a shackle around Gabriel’s right ankle, its chain fixed to the wall. He worked with astonishing precision, despite his size. Gabriel noticed that his black eyes displayed neither cruelty nor pleasure, merely weariness. Four others surrounded him and gazed upon their prisoner with grim, menacing stares.

  ‘What’s your name?’ aske
d Gabriel.

  ‘Enrique Hermoso, Don Gabriel. But my friends call me Kikeh.’

  ‘Well then, Kikeh, do what you must do, and don’t worry too much.’

  Kikeh sighed and continued with his task. Gabriel gritted his teeth. He tried to distract himself by examining the others, whom he did not know. They wore thick new leather cuirasses emblazoned with the Pizarro coat of arms: a pine cone and apples flanked by a pair of upright bears. Also new were their halberds with sickle-shaped blades, which they held carelessly against their shoulders. And it was with no real surprise that Gabriel saw them make way for a large man sporting a well-groomed beard and wearing a spotless starched lace ruff: Don Hernando Pizarro.

  ‘I shall be finished this instant, my lord,’ said the fat man.

  He brought the hammer down onto the shackle one last time. But the tool slipped and came down on Gabriel’s ankle instead, bruising it horribly and provoking a cry of pain. The jailer chortled awkwardly as he said:

  ‘Well, with this chain on his paw, Don Hernando, he’s not about to cause any trouble, much less dance a saraband!’

  ‘Just so, Enrique,’ said Hernando, amused. ‘Rather, we shall invite señor Montelucar y Flores to a dance of our own devising.’

  As the fat man rose to his feet, breathing heavily, Gabriel got up too, gritting his teeth again to smother any hint of the dizziness gripping him. His ankle was so painful that he could barely stand.

  Hernando shook his head.

  ‘The passing of time has seen little change in you, Don Gabriel. I leave you hot under the collar, and I find you exactly the same some thirty months later! Although, looking at your clothes, I see that you have changed somewhat after all. Now you are even lower, even closer to the manure that is your proper abode!’

  Gabriel spat blood.

  ‘Very well,’ Hernando said. ‘That explains the stench floating about since your arrival.’

  One of the men in the leather cuirasses made to move forward, but Hernando held up his hand.