The death sentence rang through the room in the deep tones of Francisco
Pizarro’s voice and a moment’s painful silence was broken by the sob of
a woman. Yma had rushed out and brought back Molina. The girl gripped
him, trembling.
“You will not let them do this crime, my beloved! You _will_ not!”
she whispered. “Your arm is strong, your sword is cold and keen. I will
help you. I have seen many men in this room who approve your words.
They will help you--”
Molina pressed her hand for silence and faced the judges. He was calmer
now.
“In the name of justice, humanity and God, I denounce this verdict and
warn you to pause before you dare to execute it!”
The Pizarros hesitated, amazed at this further audacity. But Almagro
leaped into the breach.
“The men are with us ten to one,” he muttered. “To hell with him.”
But the Chief Judge, taken with the courage displayed, listened in
silence as Molina rushed on.
“This whole procedure has been a shameless farce. If your sentence
is executed you will leave a record of infamy unparalleled in the
history of Spain. You’ve done this thing with a haste indecent and
indefensible. De Soto by his character, learning and rank was entitled
to sit as judge--”
“His voice could not have changed our verdict,” Pizarro interrupted.
“Then why this haste lest he arrive in time to be heard? The evidence
before you is too flimsy for discussion. The charges themselves were
ridiculous. I deny your right to sit thus in judgment on a sovereign
prince in his own domain. Only the Court of Charles V could try such a
prisoner!”
“Is that all you have to say?” Almagro sneered.
“No, it’s not. Your charter requires that you consult the authorities
of the Church on all matters of importance. Has this been done?”
Pizarro’s face fell at the cunning of his tormentor.
“Not yet.”
“I demand a delay that this shall be done in proper order. I appeal to
Father Valverde to hear my argument for a stay of execution.”
“Send for the friar!” Pizarro commanded.
“I demand a day in which to prepare my appeal and argument before the
Church!”
“You’ll not get it,” was the prompt decision. “Father Valverde will
appear immediately, hear you and give his decision.”
The wily commander knew that he could rely on his own chaplain.
Valverde listened to the fiery eloquence of the Inca’s young advocate
with dignity. The judges submitted a copy of their verdict and death
warrant for his signature or veto. But Pizarro knew his position.
He gave his decision without hesitation:
“In my opinion,” he said in stern accents, “the Inca deserves death.”
He promptly affixed his signature to the death warrant and returned it
to the Chief Judge. Pizarro handed it to his executioners.
“Make your arrangements and complete the task within the hour.”
Molina again felt the soft grip on his arm and heard Yma’s sobbing
voice:
“My god-man, you will not let them--”
The young cavalier drew his sword and stepped before the executioner.
The judges stared in surprise, too great for words. It was preposterous
that one man should dare thus to defy them all. And it was not until a
score of stalwart figures crowded beside Molina, their hands on their
swords, that Pizarro saw that he was confronted by an unexpected and
dangerous crisis. A fight in his court room over the verdict might
mean an attack from the attendants of the Inca at the same moment. A
protest ending in bloodshed would send their record to the Crown under
a dangerous cloud. He must use his wits and use them quickly. Almagro
and his brothers had drawn their swords and a mass of their followers
backed them.
“Sheathe your swords!” Francisco Pizarro sternly commanded his
brothers, and turning to Molina repeated the command.
The young cavalier stood with set jaw and refused to move. Pizarro
boldly approached, laid his hand on his shoulder and spoke in soothing
tones:
“Come, come, my son, what madness is this? You would shed the blood of
your people, for what?”
Molina shook off the hand.
“For the honor of Spain, for decency, and justice!” he replied. “You do
not seem to know their meaning. Must I teach you with this?” He set his
sword at guard.
Pizarro flinched at the scorn, but did not retreat from the sword.
“Words, words, my boy. Face the facts and forget your knight-errantry.
Our lives are at stake--yours and the life of the girl whom you love.”
“We scorn life at such a price!”
“You refuse to see our danger?”
“There is no danger!” the cavalier cried in a rage.
“That is your opinion--”
“And the opinion of some who stand beside me.”
The men around him answered fiercely:
“Yes!”
“So be it, gentlemen,” Pizarro argued. “You are outnumbered ten to one.
See for yourselves--” he paused and waved his hand to the hundred and
more men standing behind the judges.
“Consider for a moment the outcome of a fight in this room. You and
your followers would be killed to a man.”
“Our cause is worth it!”
“If so,” the wily leader urged, “take it to the highest court in Spain
and we stake our lives on the decision of the Crown. It’s no time for
Spaniards to kill each other. We are here to carry the banners of
Castile and Aragon to new glories, not bathe them in fraternal blood.
Write your protest, sign it and the clerk will forward it to his
majesty at Toledo.”
“It might be wise,” a voice whispered by Molina’s side.
Molina considered. He felt the hopelessness of his position. Bare sword
still in his hand, he swung on Pizarro:
“Your words mock you, Pizarro. Your villainy reproaches you. But I
shall not shed blood. On this, though, I stand: Stay your execution
until this protest is drawn and signed.”
“It is done.”
He signaled the executioner, took the death warrant, and ordered the
clerk to draw the protest as the young cavalier should dictate. Yma
watched the strange procedure with a look of dumb misery, yet hope was
not dead. Her beloved had stayed the hand of death for the moment. She
still believed he would win.
Every man in the room fixed his name in writing or cross-mark either
to the death warrant under Valverde’s signature or under the protest
of Molina. More than a hundred endorsed the decree of the judges and
eleven men signed the protest.
The crisis passed, Francisco Pizarro slipped the death warrant into
the hands of his executioner who hurried to do his bidding. The keen
eyes of the Sun Virgin saw the look of despair on the face of Molina
and watched with a low cry of horror as the executioner left the room.
But she realized Molina’s helplessness. She darted from the room, and
reported the dread news to the Dowager who hastened with the Inca into
the presence of his judges.
Atahualpa pressed his way before Francisco Pizarro trembling with
excitement. The blow had fallen with merciless swiftness. It was
incredible. For the moment he was stunned. Through eyes swimming with
tears he began his piteous plea.
“What have I done, or my children, that I should meet this fate?”
He paused, pressed closer and spoke in tones of desperate appeal.
“And from you, of all men, whom I have loaded with kindness and untold
treasure.”
Pizarro turned from the scene with unusual emotion. He had not counted
on this pitiful personal appeal to him as a man and a friend. He had
pledged the Inca his friendship. It was a shock to see how implicit
had been the man’s faith in the promise. The iron heart within the
conqueror’s breast faltered for a moment in his stern purpose.
The Inca hastened to follow the advantage which his appeal had given
him. He seized Pizarro’s arm.
“Surely you, my friend, whom I have learned to trust above all
your followers here--you, whose mind has been too great for petty
annoyances, can not do this cruel wrong. I beg of you my life. In this
hour of my desertion and helplessness, you can not fail me. I can
assure you the safety of your people. Spare my life, give me the time
and I will double the ransom already paid. I will fill the room twice
with gold, the smaller one four times with silver.”
The conqueror, deeply moved, attempted to go, but the Inca clung to him
in final desperation.
“You will not desert me, my friend, in this hour of my anguish--”
The Dowager added her voice to the broken plea.
“Grant me the life of my son, Your Excellency,” she cried. “I speak
as the mother who loves him. And I swear to you that he will keep
his solemn word of honor. No hand shall be lifted against a Spanish
soldier. We will work in harmony with your people and build a new
Kingdom of the Four Corners of the World--”
The Inca suddenly lifted his hand to his mother for silence.
“It is enough. It is fate.”
He drew himself to his full height, folded his arms, and his face
became again a stolid mask of bronze--a mask marked with supreme
contempt.
Two hours after sunset the trumpet called the soldiers into the Plaza
of Caxamalca to witness the _auto de fe_ on the 29th of August,
1533. A hundred blazing torches lighted the Plaza. News of the dreaded
deed had spread a nameless terror in the heart of every native. That
these new beings would dare to lay their hands in deadly violence on
God Himself surpassed belief. They stood in the shadows in huddled
groups and discussed the catastrophe as their ancestors had stood
appalled by earthquake and volcano.
The executioners set a bronze stake in the center of the square and
piled the faggots ready to be packed about the body of the victim.
The wails of his terror-stricken household swept the square from the
open doors of the House of the Serpent.
But the Inca bore the trial with a stern stoicism. He embraced his
wives, took each of his weeping little boys and girls in his arms and
pressed them to his heart in silence.
He looked long and tenderly at Yma, his great head hanging low. He
opened his arms and she rested her tear-stained face on his breast.
“Grieve no more, dear daughter of the Sun. You have done all that the
brave and wise could do. You have within you the soul of a queen--my
mother’s spirit is yours. My eyes have been blind or I had seen it
sooner. Forgive my blindness and my many errors. You would have saved
me, had I been wise. May the Sun bring you his blessing, my glorious
Yma!”
He put the weeping girl aside and took his mother in his arms. For a
long while they held each other in silence. He stooped and kissed her
lips. She tried to speak, but her voice trailed into a strangling sob
and she wept in silence.
The guards drew them apart and led the Inca before Pizarro who ordered
him chained hand and foot. As he was led forth into the square, the
heavy chains rattled loudly on the flag stones and a long piteous
scream from his mother broke the stillness.
His people crowded to the doorway and watched the hideous scene still
with unbelieving eyes. The Sun would not allow the infamy of such a
death. They trembled and listened for the rumble of an earthquake that
would shake the city and strike terror to the fiends. But they waited
in vain.
An appalling silence now brooded over the Square. The figures of five
hundred Spanish soldiers stood in dark groups about the stake.
Father Vincente de Valverde walked by the doomed monarch’s side,
begging him in this hour of supreme need to renounce the religion of
his fathers and accept the faith of his conquerors. But the bronze face
gave no sign of hearing the friar’s appeal. His eyes were fixed on a
far-off star as he walked with head erect. They bound his fine young
body to the bronze stake, fixing his arms and legs in close fetters.
Quickly the faggots were piled high about him and the executioner
lifted his torch to apply the flame.
Valverde spoke.
“A moment. A last appeal.”
The friar held the cross before the dazed victim.
“Embrace the cross of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and be baptized,
I implore you! If you will, I can spare you the agony of flames. You
may die by the less painful form of strangling.”
The Inca turned his sad eyes on Molina.
“It is true, my friend?”
The cavalier hastened to assure him.
“It is true. Our religion, my lord, is true, if its followers are
not. I beg of you to accept the terms and save yourself the horror of
flames. They will sear my soul as well as your body.”
“Perhaps it is well,” the Inca slowly agreed. “To die in flames for me
will be to lose both body and soul. My image could not then be embalmed
as those of my fathers have been preserved.”
He paused and turned to Father Valverde.
“I accept your offer. I renounce the gods who have forsaken me and
accept yours.”
The priest who had just signed his death warrant administered the rite
of baptism and gave his convert a new name in honor of John the Baptist
on whose day the tragedy fell. As the words fell from the lips of the
priest Molina turned from the scene with rage and disgust.
“I baptize you Juan de Atahualpa in the name of the Father, Son and
Holy Ghost!”
The words died away in a dull drone, and Atahualpa turned to Pizarro
with a look of appeal. He spoke with a quiet dignity that moved every
hearer to astonishment.
“I ask of Your Excellency, that my body be taken to Quito, my
birthplace, to be fittingly preserved with those of my ancestors--” He
paused, searched the face of the conqueror and went on--“I ask this
of you as commander of my kingdom. A last request I make of you, as
the--shall I say?--friend I have known these past seven months. Have
compassion on the sorrowing people of my household and protect my
little children who are thus left desolate.”
Pizarro bowed his consent and signaled to the garroter, who stepped
forward, the heavy wire used in strangulation gripped in his coarse
hand.
The twisted wire touched the hand of Almagro who stood beside the
dark figure of Hernando Pizarro. The little man moved with a gesture
of anger at the lack of respect shown him. But a shiver of queer
foreboding swept him. He shook it off with an oath, as he looked around
him.
The Inca closed his eyes. The executioner circled his neck and
strangled him to death while five hundred Spaniards pressed close
murmuring their credos for the salvation of his soul.
As the stalwart body slowly relaxed in the tremor of death, the thunder
of horses’ hoofs echoed at the gates and De Soto dashed into the scene
with flushed face, his hand trembling on his sword.
He threw himself toward Pizarro with a dangerous smile playing around
his strong mouth. The commander paled for a moment at the obvious
threat.
“I am here,” De Soto shouted, “to report the country quiet, the talk of
an uprising a shameless lie!”
“I’m sorry that we have acted in haste,” Pizarro muttered.
“You could not wait to hear my report! You rush your victim to his doom
without a chance to prove his innocence! I ride madly to save him and
you beat me to the stake. You disregard me as a judge! Well, by God’s
light, you’ll answer to me and to your King for this violation of the
laws of Christian humanity.”
Pizarro was stunned for a moment with the violence of the attack. He
hedged and made excuses.
“I had no choice, De Soto--the soldiers clamored for his life. They
would have assaulted his house and cut him to pieces had I not acted--”
“And you--you with all your vaunted power as commander, could not have
held their hands until I returned to tell the truth?” De Soto sneered.
“I was forced to act by the Crown treasurer, his officers and Father
Valverde.”
Riquelme, the treasurer, gripped his sword and faced Pizarro with
blazing eyes.
“A lie, Francisco--a lie! I but followed your lead!”
“Besides,” the chief continued, ignoring the interruption, “I was urged
by Father Valverde who signed the death warrant....”
“This is so?” De Soto demanded of the friar.
“It is true. It was his life or ours....”
The amazed captain turned to his chief:
“I challenge you to a duel to the death, Francisco Pizarro, for this
betrayal of my rights as a judge in this matter--on guard!”
De Soto’s sword flashed in the torch light and Pizarro’s answered. But
men on each side restrained them. De Soto shook off the restraining
hands, sheathed his sword, and fixed Pizarro with a look of contempt.
“I salute you, chieftain, as a prince--_the prince of murderers!_”
He fixed his name at the head of the protest sent to Spain, and
withdrew from the expedition.