The governor of Tumbez received Molina with royal honors, insisting
on giving a festival of days to celebrate his coming. The cavalier
declined with reluctance.
“I am instructed, Your Excellency, to report at once to your sovereign
as the accredited ambassador of Spain.”
The _curaca_ gave swift orders to his attendants, and within half
an hour, two splendid litters draped in scarlet cloth, trimmed in gold,
drew up before the door. Four stalwart men held the bars of each sedan.
The governor led Molina to his seat and ordered his baggage placed in a
plain litter to follow the two of gorgeous draperies.
Congo hung back and grinned his embarrassment at the sight of his chair
of state. An attendant led him to the seat. He refused to get in.
Molina laughed.
“Take your seat, Congo,” the master ordered. “It is the custom of the
country.”
In spite of urging from all sides the negro still balked. Amid shouts
of friendliness they caught and lifted him to his seat in the royal
conveyance.
As the cortège of bearers and guards were about to start on the
journey to the court at Quito, a barefooted, barelegged athlete dashed
up to the governor and whispered a message. The _curaca_ waved to
a group of native soldiers lounging across the way and in a few minutes
a litter veiled heavily in deep purple drew up behind the baggage train.
Molina inquired the meaning of the message and the reason for the veil
which concealed his fellow passenger.
The governor was loath to reply but in answer to the inquiry of the
interpreter quietly answered:
“A prisoner under sentence of death goes with your train to the capital
for execution.”
Molina glanced at Congo. He was leaning back in state, and had failed
to catch the ominous announcement. But, seeing the guards of his litter
throw a startled look at the veiled seat, he called the interpreter and
asked the meaning of the stir. When the solemn words were repeated he
rolled his eyes toward the purple draperies, leaped from his seat and
ran for his life.
The guards at Molina’s command rushed to catch him. The black man ran
in leaps and bounds. With each frantic leap he breathed a prayer. He
reached the water’s edge and was about to dive when the guard caught
him. Four men dragged him back to his seat.
Molina confronted him with rage.
“What ails you, fool?”
“My seat’s too high,” was the trembling answer. “They’re carrying me to
my funeral!”
“Nonsense,” his master reassured. “You’ve nothing to do with their
laws. We live under the laws of Spain.”
Congo’s fear allayed, the procession started forward at a swift pace.
Outside the city they struck the great paved highway of the empire
leading northward.
At nightfall they stopped at a rest house and ate a sumptuous meal
served with choice wines. The attendants wore the royal ensign which
denoted their service of the monarch. The rest house was not a tavern
run for gain, but a contribution of the crown to the convenience and
comfort of the traveling public.
The cavalier marveled at its perfect appointments. His interpreter
showed him the royal granaries adjoining the house--full to
overflowing, against a day of need, with bread for the people. He tried
in vain to learn the character of the crime committed by the convict in
their train being carried on the last stretch of the journey of life.
But all lips were dumb.
The only answer given was plainly a formula repeated many times before:
“Only the Lord of the Sun in his palace at Quito can explain.”
Arrived at Quito, the young ambassador was received with acclaim.
The knowledge of his coming had been proclaimed long before. Molina
understood now the meaning of the swift athletes who passed his train
from time to time. They were the royal mail carriers. He had seen them
meet on the highway, whisper a message and dart away on the smooth road
in opposite directions. A runner was required to travel at high speed
for five hundred yards and his message was taken and relayed to the
next man. They covered in this way three hundred miles in a day.
Passing over the stone-paved streets of a large city, through massed
thousands of well-dressed excited people, the litters were borne into
the spacious courtyard of the royal palace. Molina gazed with wonder on
the stone walls. Many of the bowlders used in its structure were ten
feet long and four feet high, and undoubtedly weighed many tons.
The monarch’s chamberlain, arrayed in a robe of gorgeous blue, clasped
with gold fastenings, bade Molina welcome in the name of his master and
conducted him to an apartment a single flight above ground.
The Spaniard studied the solid masonry of the walls of his apartment
with increasing interest. They had been ground smooth on their
inner surfaces. The bowlders were of unequal size and shape and yet
fitted perfectly without the use of mortar. The finest point of his
knife could not find a crevice in their seams. Narrow windows near
the ceiling admitted light by day, and huge tapers of tallow stood
sentinels for the night.
To his amazement he heard the splash of water through a doorway, and
entered to find a bathroom with a spacious pool fed by a sparkling
stream. Certainly these people were centuries advanced in the
development of life when compared to the semi-savage Indians of Darien
and Panama. A stone seat circled the room on which were laid towels
of cotton cloth. On the ledge of stone through which the stream of
water poured into the pool were placed goblets of solid gold on which
were wrought with skill the heads of jaguars. In one corner sat a huge
flagon of silver filled with a choice fermented drink and beside it
stood two cups.
The Spaniard tasted the liquor and his eyes sparkled at the fine mellow
quality of the drink. It sharpened his wits, and beyond doubt he was
going to need the talents of a diplomat of the first rank.
The chamberlain entered after an hour with a message from his master.
“Our Lord of the Sun regrets that you arrived too late to dine with
him in state this evening and begs you to accept such service in your
apartment as his handmaidens can provide.”
Molina bowed his thanks. The nobleman waved his hand and a procession
of fair serving maids entered bearing cushions, cloths, steaming dishes
of llama meat, potatoes, fruits and wines. The food was spread on a
low table of wooden sections placed in the middle of the room. A huge
cushion was placed beside the board for Molina. The interpreter, being
a native, was not supposed to sit at the ambassador’s table.
When every want of his guest had been provided for, the chamberlain
bowed and said:
“When you have refreshed yourself, our lord will receive you in the
throne room. I will return within the hour.”
In vain Molina begged to know the name of the unfortunate prisoner who
had accompanied his train. Again he heard the formal answer:
“Only the Lord of the Sun may explain.”
The Spaniard determined to ask the monarch. The incident was
disquieting. The chamberlain was careful, however, to satisfy his
natural curiosity to know the name of the monarch.
“You are now in the palace of our Lord the Inca, Atahualpa, supreme
ruler of the northern half of the Kingdom of the Four Corners of the
World. His brother Huascar rules at Cuzco, the capital of the South.
For the first time in history there are two Incas. This by the will of
their great father Huyna Capac, who so loved the beautiful mother of
our Lord of the Sun, that their second son, Atahualpa, was made equal
in power to the lawful heir Huascar.”
Molina listened carefully. _Two_ Incas! Two Incas might breed
jealousy. And jealousy might breed--The young cavalier’s heart beat
exultantly.
An hour later the chamberlain entered with a group of noblemen and
led Molina into the throne room. The magnificent hall, lighted by a
thousand candles hanging in clusters from the beams of the wide-set
roof, presented a scene of splendor. The walls were covered with plates
of gold. The great beams that supported the roof were likewise sheathed
in beaten gold.
At the end of the hall on a throne of gold, set with pearls and
emeralds, was the Inca, surrounded by his wives. His mother, the
dowager queen, stood beside him. From the wall behind the throne,
projecting into the room above the head of the ruler, was an immense
plate of gold, representing the sun, a human face from which radiated
rays in all directions. These rays were heavily studded with hundreds
of precious stones. On the forehead of the face was set a huge emerald
whose deep green light gave to it an expression of sinister power.
The Inca was a man of commanding presence in the full strength of an
athletic youth, thirty years of age. His lips were full, his features
regular, his nose long and finely shaped. The eyes possessed the slant
of the Orient and looked out fearlessly. There was no sign of beard
on his smooth face. Centuries of plucking had left the Peruvian race
without a beard. Within no one’s memory had beard on the human face
been known.
A cloak of plaited gold hung loosely on his shoulders, its collar
trimmed in jewels, rising three inches above his shoulders. His head
was covered with a cone-shaped crown of gold tipped with scarlet
feathers. Pendants of emeralds hung from his ears to his shoulders.
Beneath the cone-shaped crown, projected to the eyebrows the scarlet
_borla_ fringe, the supreme emblem of his power, symbol of both
human and divine attributes. He was both sovereign and God to his
people. In the center of the crown blazed the sign of the sun, and
on his breast he wore the same emblem which had been wrought in the
form of his own features by the royal goldsmith on the occasion of his
coronation. In his right hand he held a jeweled scepter.
He waved his scepter and the vast crowd of splendidly dressed nobles,
accompanied by their wives and daughters, fell on their faces and rose
with a low murmur of applause.
The chamberlain conducted the Spaniard to the foot of the throne, and
Atahualpa rose with simple dignity and presented his visitor to his
stately mother, a woman of rare beauty, at this time about forty-five
years of age. His queen he presented with due formality and waved an
introduction to his other wives.
The Inca’s mother, with a gracious smile, placed a jewel-set chair
beside the throne and the Inca seated Molina and then resumed his own
place on the throne.
Again the ruler lifted his scepter and the musicians concealed in the
foliage of artificial trees wrought in gold and silver began to render
an enchanting call to dance. The great curtains at the end of the hall
parted, and a hundred torch bearers entered and pressed the crowd back
against the walls, clearing the space before the throne for the dancers.
At the shrill call of a trumpet five hundred dancing girls swept
gracefully into the cleared space led by an exquisite creature, whom
Molina instantly recognized as she bowed before the Inca. The Sun
Virgin Yma who had spoken to him in Tumbez! A frown clouded his brow
for a moment at an ugly thought. He dismissed it as foolish. She could
have preceded his train, of course, in a swifter one.
Her arms and legs were bare; the whole body above the waistline bare
except for a delicate brassiere of meshed gold that covered her
breasts. Around her waist was wound a scarlet girdle to which was bound
a close-fitting loin cloth. From a jewel-set leather belt in which the
girdle ended hung strings of pearls that formed a skirt falling to the
upper calves of the legs.
The five hundred Virgins of the Sun whose dance she led were all
dressed in similar fashion except that the brassieres were of meshed
silver and the skirts of tiny linked chains of silver.
Through a maze of sensuous rhythmic motion, Yma led her shining
sisters, pausing at the end of each set to bow before the Inca.
Never in Europe had the Spaniard witnessed a scene of such dazzling
beauty. No monarch of Spain ever had witnessed such magnificence. And
no other court could rival that of Spain.
But Molina watched the spectacle with a sense of foreboding. This Inca
seemed a mighty monarch. And he could but hope that his commander
would not sail until the expeditionary fleet was an armada and the
expeditionary army invincible.
But Molina’s fears were forgotten in his admiration for Yma. With
every approach to the throne her lustrous eyes sought his in a strange
yearning appeal that moved him profoundly. There could be no mistaking
her deep interest. That, he had seen at a glance on their meeting at
Tumbez. Then he had attributed it only to her curiosity at seeing for
the first time a full-bearded white man. His unusually fair complexion
in startling contrast with the coal black of his servant had, perhaps,
added to the fascination. But now he saw something else.
Her gleaming teeth, her raven hair and her lithe, exquisite body held
him spellbound. There was something about her that called him. Had he
seen her eyes dimmed by tears as she swept close in the last dance? He
was sure of this, yet could find no reason for tears in such triumphant
revelry.
The dance ended with a crash of trumpets and the five hundred Virgins
of the Sun, with lingering glances at the stranger seated beside their
sovereign, slowly marched through the great curtains and disappeared in
the depths of the adjoining temple.
Yma alone remained. And Molina saw that she was terrified. She stood
before the Inca trembling, her eyes streaming with tears, her beautiful
arms outstretched in pleading. But the monarch’s face was hard. Her
tears, for him, had no meaning. With a low moan she sank to her knees
and buried her face in abject pleading for mercy.
What, Molina wondered, had she done?
The Inca waved to his guards. Two stalwarts lifted the prostrate figure
and tenderly supported her while the ruler spoke a brief sentence that
sent a shiver through the crowd of nobles.
Molina gripped the arm of his interpreter fiercely:
“Quick! what is it? what did he say?”
“That Yma, first of all the Virgins of the Sun, must die. The priests
of the temple will throw her into a vault and wall her up alive.”
“In God’s name--why?”
“She has broken her vows. She has spoken to a man without the
permission of the Inca. The Sun Virgins are the nominal brides of the
monarch.”
Molina recalled the guard who had led her away at Tumbez. He
remembered, with racing pulses, his meeting with her. _She_ was
the mystery behind the veiled litter.
“God! And they mocked her death by commanding her to lead this dance?”
he sternly asked.
“No. She begged the privilege of dancing for you. She outdid herself
to-night--”
Molina’s decision was instantaneous. He sprang from his seat, seized
the girl and led the trembling figure before the Inca.
The monarch’s brow clouded with quick anger. He lifted his scepter and
turned toward his soldiers.
But the dowager queen bent close to her son.
“Wait,” she whispered. “The girl loves the stranger. Use her. We can
learn his secrets and purposes through her.”
The scepter was lowered slowly. Atahualpa turned toward the Spaniard,
his royal visage stern.
“Why have you interfered?” he asked.
“I beg of Your Majesty the life of this unhappy girl. In the
excitement that swept the people of Tumbez at sight of our ship,
and of the strange, bearded beings who sailed it, we were called
messengers from heaven. They thought us more than men. They called us
_god_-men. Surely, she might be forgiven that she forgot her vow
in such an excited hour. Will Your Majesty ask her if she thought me
human?”
The Inca’s eyes narrowed. He spoke to the terror-stricken girl.
Her answer was an awed whisper, half addressed to Molina and half
spoken to her Lord of the Sun.
“I believed he was a god. I believe so now. I am dedicated to the
service of the gods. I had no thought of sin.”
A new advocate suddenly appeared on the scene. A slender youth wearing
the insignia of the highest rank rushed through the crowd of nobles and
dared to seize the Inca in his pleading.
“Atahualpa, glorious brother, you will not doom her to die. I love her.
Always I’ve loved her. If she dies, you kill me also!”
The Inca threw the youth roughly from him. He rebuked him sternly.
“Silence, boy! How dare you press me! Back to your guard before I send
you to a dungeon.”
But Toparca remained. Once more he pleaded.
“Kill! Kill me if you like,” he begged, “but spare her--”
The Inca beckoned to a guard, who led the trembling youth through the
crowd of excited, murmuring courtiers. Yma’s eyes followed Toparca
with a look of tender pity.
The dowager queen mother frowned. The boy’s unhappy love for the Sun
Virgin so suddenly revealed had again roused the wrath of the ruler.
But she pressed her scheme.
“Use her!” she said, and her low whisper was tense. “Release her from
her vows and give her to the stranger. Allot to him a house. With four
maidens to assist, let her preside. The end is sure. We will cure the
lovesickness of Toparca and Yma will deliver this god-man into our
hands. We must know the real meaning of his presence among us.”
The Inca smiled, and nodded his assent.
He turned to Molina and spoke in tones of genuine good will.
“I accept your plea for the girl and extend to you the hospitality of
my kingdom. She is yours. She will select a retinue of servants and
minister to your comfort!”
Yma prostrated herself before the Inca, murmuring her worshipful
thanks. She rose with a joyous laugh and gazed long and tenderly at
Molina.
“My glorious god-man,” she cried through tears of joy, “I worship you.
My life is yours.”
The young cavalier started. He thought of Teresa. There was no
mistaking the look in the girl’s eyes. She had made no effort to
conceal it. The tones in which she laid her life at his feet left no
doubt of her meaning.
There was no help for it. He had saved her. Now he must play the game
and wait--and he trembled at thought of the future; trembled with a
nameless dread--and anticipation.
With a graceful bow to the ruler he turned to the smiling girl and
followed her to his new home.