FIFTY-THREE
It had been a long, long time since Bao and I had been alone together.
With the walls of a dwelling sheltering us from the sounds of the benighted jungle and the gazes of our companions, we made love into the small hours of the night; sharing our bodies, sharing our breath, sharing our entwined diadh-anams until neither of us was sure where one began and the other ended.
That, too, was a kind of communion.
In the morning, both of us were heavy-eyed for lack of sleep. The others regarded us with good-natured amusement, but no one begrudged us a night of pleasure, although Balthasar had a few choice words of warning for us.
“Don’t let it make you careless,” he said. “I didn’t survive an infestation of bad spirits to capsize and drown on that damn river.”
Bao yawned. “It won’t. And I told you, it wasn’t bad spirits.”
“It might as well have been.” Balthasar hefted a satchel of powdered cinchona bark that Atoc had given us. According to the shaman, if our recovering men didn’t continue drinking the brew, the fever would return. “Gods know, this stuff’s vile enough to keep a host of bad things at bay.”
Paullu and a handful of villagers accompanied us on our return journey to the big river, where the rest of our company hailed our arrival with obvious relief. We redistributed our renewed stores, and in short order, were ready to depart once more.
“Sulpayki, Paullu.” I offered him a final bow in parting. Once again, he returned it with dignity. “Thank you for all your kindness.”
He nodded, but made no reply.
One by one, we launched our canoes while Paullu and his hunters climbed the emerald cliff alongside the sparkling waterfall. Before we resumed our journey downriver, I turned back to see the villagers arrayed in a line atop the cliff, their crimson-painted faces vivid in the morning light.
“Does anyone else have the impression they think we’re headed to our deaths?” Balthasar inquired wryly.
In the prow of our canoe, Bao began paddling purposefully. “Who along the way hasn’t thought the same?” he retorted. “And yet we’re still here.”
“Not all of us,” I murmured.
“No.” Bao gave me a somber glance over his shoulder, reminded of our losses. “Not all of us.”
By Eyahue’s estimate, we were still a week’s travel away from Vilcabamba. The days of sameness resumed. We paddled through rain showers until the sun reemerged to steam us dry. When the river was wide and placid, we bent our backs to the labor, paddling hard, our palms toughened and our muscles long accustomed to the effort. Where it ran swift, we forged paths through rapids, all of us grown to be expert navigators.
In the evenings, we made landfall along the rocky shores, slinging our hammocks along the verges of the jungle.
We fished and foraged, augmenting our stores of sweet potatoes that ever dwindled too quickly.
I didn’t bother keeping count of the days. I’d long ago lost track of the length of our journey. And despite Balthasar’s and Denis’ assurances to the contrary, I privately thought that Thierry de la Courcel must have done the same.
It was the sameness.
The sameness was mesmerizing; the endless river, the endless green of the jungle. The incessant heat, the constant clouds of mosquitoes and gnats. The gnawing sense of hunger that never quite went away as there was never quite enough to eat. The myriad deadly dangers to be avoided. The ever-present sound of rushing water; whispering at times, roaring at others. It lulled one’s mind into a strange state of wary torpor, where one’s only thoughts were of survival and the never-ending journey.
And yet all journeys end.
“Tomorrow, I think,” Eyahue announced unexpectedly one evening, using a stick to poke at a sweet potato roasting in the ashes, rolling it within reach. “Tomorrow, we will come to Vilcabamba.”
I lifted my head to stare at him. “You’re sure?”
He grabbed the potato and dropped it with alacrity, sucking his burned fingers. “Sure, no. But I think so.”
The rumor spread through our camp, raising hope and dispelling the torpor that all of us felt.
“What is it like there?” someone asked. I translated the question for Eyahue.
“Very fine.” The old pochteca cackled and exposed his gums and remaining teeth in a broad grin. “Oh, yes! Very fine indeed.”
Eyahue spun a tale of a great city of stone rising from the jungle, accessed by hanging bridges built over vast chasms in the earth. It was the easternmost stronghold of the empire of Tawantinsuyo, a name that in itself referred to the four disparate quarters of the empire of the Quechua folk. They possessed gold in abundance, he told us, for it was sacred to the sun god Inti they worshipped. The Emperor of Tawantinsuyo made his permanent residence in another city far away in the mountains, but Vilcabamba, where his sacred plant was cultivated, was one of his seasonal refuges.
“That’s what you came to trade for, isn’t it?” I asked him. “This sacred plant?”
He put a finger over his lips and winked at me. “Shh! Only Quechua royalty are permitted to use it.”
The spotted warrior Temilotzin chuckled.
The following day, we set out on the river in higher spirits than usual, hoping that there actually was an end in sight to the journey. It was in the late morning when I noticed a phenomenon along the southern bank of the river, a trickle of darkness moving toward us, oddly shiny in the sunlight. It wasn’t until our paths converged that I was able to make out what it was.
Ants.
Tens of thousands of them, pouring in a stream over the rocky shore, black bodies glistening.
I had to own, it made my skin crawl.
We pulled alongside Eyahue’s canoe to ask him about it.
“Nasty buggers,” the old pochteca confirmed. “They hunt as an army. We’ll want to stay out of their way.”
“How dangerous are they?” I asked.
Eyahue sucked his teeth. “Their bite stings like fire. I’ve never known them to take down prey as big as a man… but I wouldn’t like to be lying injured in their path, either.” He looked askance at the teeming shore, his expression apprehensive. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen quite so many in one place before.”
As our canoes glided past the stream of ants, the head of the column roiled in confusion, doubling back on itself and reversing direction, following our course. Here and there, I could make out individual insects, antennae twitching as they appeared to regard our progress with their faceted eyes.
And there were more coming, thin trickles emerging from the depths of the jungle to broaden the stream.
“Poor Denis,” Bao murmured, paddling steadily. “This must be driving him mad.”
“Bao?” My voice shook a little. I pointed to the shore. “Would you call that a black river?”
He shot me a grim look over his shoulder. “Not yet. But I might if it continues to grow.”
“Drop back,” I said to him. “I want to know what Denis thinks.”
We back-paddled on the placid surface of the river, drifting on the milky-green waters, letting the canoe in which Denis de Toluard rode catch up to us.
In the stern of his canoe, Denis was restless and uneasy, his nose twitching, his paddle idle in his hands. “Go,” he said unasked when they drew alongside us. “Go, go, go! That is what they say. Go and see, call the others. Call them all from the depths of the jungle, every last colony.” He rubbed violently at his nose with one knuckled fist. “Not see, no. They cannot see as we understand it. But they can scent us, and they do.”
On the shore, the stream grew still for a moment. Antennae perked and twitched, echoing Denis’ movements.
“Can you tell if they mean us harm?” I asked quietly.
His haunted gaze met mine. “I don’t think so. They feel like… sentries?” He nodded to himself. “Sentries, yes.”
We continued onward and the army of sentries streamed alongside us, growing ever larger. The ants foraged as they went, taking down beetles and lizards in their path, stripping them in seconds. They poured over rocks, divided around boulders, the moving mass of them looking for all the world like a black river.
A sick sense of apprehension settled in the pit of my stomach. Not even Eyahue’s victorious shout as he pointed to terraced fields arising in the heights beyond a vast bend in the river could alleviate it.
But then the stream of ants altered their course, turning away from the river to plunge back into the jungle, heading overland toward the distant terraces. I wasn’t entirely reassured, but my sense of dread lessened.
A little later, we came around the bend and got our first sight of Vilcabamba.
Eyahue hadn’t lied.
The Quechua city was perched in the highlands, spilling down the western slope of a mountain into the valleys below. It was protected by deep chasms spanned by hanging bridges. Buildings in the valleys were built of wood and thatch, but in the heights, there were palaces wrought of carved and painted stone. Streams trickled down to join the big river, churning the waters ahead of us.
All of us drifted and stared, unable to believe our eyes, unable to believe that we had reached the outermost stronghold of Tawantinsuyo.
Belatedly, I realized that we were approaching a long quay with a handful of canoes docked there. On a ridge above it stood a double line of Quechua warriors clad in quilted cotton armor. They carried wooden shields, spears or stone-headed war-clubs, and their faces were impassive.
Eyahue called out to them, telling them that we were traders in search of a party of white-faced strangers. One of the Quechua warriors pointed at the quay without replying, indicating permission to tie up.
“Should we arm ourselves?” Balthasar murmured.
Seeing the splendid city, I was acutely aware of our unimposing appearance. We were sweaty and hungry and grimy, hardly in any condition to impress anyone. At least the armor would help. “I think we’d better.”
So we docked at the quay, unloading those trade goods we had left in store. The men donned their armor—or at least those who had not lost it to the river, for we were a few sets short by now. Of that which remained, much of it was rusted, the leather straps half-rotted by the jungle’s damp heat. The shining company that had set out from Orgullo del Sol was considerably diminished. Still, it was something.
The Quechua watched without comment. Bao nudged me, pointing with his chin. Following his gaze, I saw that there were more black ants swarming atop the ridge above us, winding in streams around the warriors’ sandaled feet. The Quechua ignored them utterly.
The sick feeling returned.
I glanced at Denis, who shook his head. He looked as ill as I felt. “I don’t know, Moirin. They want… I don’t know.” He rubbed helplessly at his twitching nose. “Whatever it is, it’s unnatural.”
Eyahue repeated our inquiry regarding the white-faced strangers, addressing the Quechua in a cajoling tone. This time, the lead warrior inclined his head and replied. “He says we are expected,” Eyahue reported, sounding puzzled. “And they will escort us into the presence of Lord Pachacuti.”
“What about Prince Thierry and his men?” I asked.
The old pochteca shook his head. “He said nothing of them.”
The Quechua leader beckoned, then turned and began to climb a series of steps carved into the side of the mountain, his men falling in behind him. On the ridge, pools of ants awaited us.
Bao and I exchanged a glance. “I go first,” he said firmly, unslinging his staff. “No arguments.”
Swallowing hard, I nodded. “None here.”
Following the Quechua, we climbed the steps to the ridge, where the pool of ants parted for us, transforming itself into a divided stream. As we climbed the next set of stairs, ascending into the heights, twin rivulets of ants poured alongside us, following our progress. Although their presence unsettled me, I did my best to ignore them.
“Do you know this Lord Pachacuti?” I asked Eyahue.
“No.” He shrugged. “He’s new since last I was here. Some ambitious son of the Emperor, I reckon.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
Eyahue grunted. “The name means ‘Earth-Shaker.’ It was the name the first Emperor of Tawantinsuyo took for himself; the Sapa Inca, they call him.” He eyed the stream of ants with distaste. “The Quechua believe one worthy of the name comes every so often to reorder the world.”
“Oh.”
We reached the first hanging bridge. It swayed underfoot, jostled by the tread of the Quechua who preceded us. I reached out with both hands to steady myself on the thick cables woven of sisal, and flinched. They were crawling with ants.
Bao turned back. “Steady, Moirin,” he said in a calm voice. “You can do this. We’ve endured worse.”
I smiled gratefully at him. “We have, haven’t we?”
Fighting to maintain my balance, I averted my gaze from the green chasm yawning beneath us and kept it fixed on Bao’s back, comforted by his sure-footed tread. We crossed the bridge and continued. Upward and upward we climbed, passing terraces cut into the face of the mountain. Farmers labored beneath the hot sun, unperturbed by the sight of armored men and our entourage of ants.
At last we reached the palace, passing through tall wooden doors emblazoned with gold disks depicting the Quechua sun god.
Far from being deterred, the ants streamed through the doors alongside us. With the sounds of the jungle hushed by thick stone walls, I could hear them, a faint rustling sound that set my skin to crawling anew. No one we passed seemed to find it the least bit unusual, which unnerved me all the more.
Our reticent escorts led us to a vast hall where dozens of young women danced attendance on the figure seated on a throne before an elaborate wall hanging wrought of feathers, a figure clad in a robe of fine-combed red wool, a great collar of gold, and a flared gold headdress.
“Lord Pachacuti,” the lead guard announced. All of them knelt, touching their brows to the floor.
The ants flowed forward, clicking and rasping, forming a teeming black pool around the base of the throne. The maidservants moved out of their way with the grace of long practice. The man on the throne smiled, reaching into a basket and tossing a handful of leaves to the swarming mass of ants.
I caught my breath, my diadh-anam flaring.
From his throne, Raphael de Mereliot turned his smile on me; and it was a terrible smile, cold and hard and cruel. “Well met, Moirin,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”