Excavation (39 page)

Sam asked the question that had been nagging him since arriving here. “Tell us about this Temple of the Sun.”

Pachacutec glanced to the sunburst symbol on the staff in his hand, then to the bonfire. His face suddenly took on a tired look, his eyes so old that for a moment Sam could almost believe this man had lived five hundred years. “To understand, I must tell stories I hear from other mouths,” he whispered. “From the Mochico who first came to this sacred place.”

Sam's heart clenched. So the Moche had been here first! Uncle Hank had been right.

The Sapa Inca nodded to the shaman. “Tell them, Kamapak, of the Night of Flaming Skies.”

The shaman bowed his head in acknowledgment and crossed to the fire's edge. His voice took on a somber tone. Norman translated. “Sixty years before Inca Pachacutec's armies conquered this valley, there came a night when the skies were ablaze with a hundred fiery trails, bits of flaming sun chasing each other across the black skies. They fell from
janan pacha
and crashed into these sacred mountains. The Mochico king ordered his hunters to gather these bits of the
sun, finding them in smoking nests throughout the mountains.”

Sam found himself nodding. Clearly this was a description of a meteor shower.

Kamapak continued, “This gathered treasure was brought back to the Mochico king. He named the pieces, the Sun's Gold, and ensconced his treasure in a cave here in this secret valley.”

Pachacutec interrupted, “But then I come with my armies. I kill their king and make the Mochico my slaves. I force them to take me to this treasure. I must kill many before the way be opened. Here I find a cave full of sunlight you can touch and hold. I fall to my knees. I know it be Inti himself. The god of the sun!” The king's eyes were full of past glory and wonder. It seemed to revitalize him.

The shaman continued the story, as Norman translated. “To honor Inti and to punish the Mochico for imprisoning our god, Pachacutec sacrificed every Mochico in this valley and the village below. Once done, Pachacutec prayed for seven days and seven nights for a sign from Inti. And he was heard!”

The shaman opened his bag and, with a mumbled prayer, tossed a bit of purplish dust on the fire; blue flames flared for a heartbeat. Then he continued, “As reward for his loyalty, a wondrous temple grew in the cave, a
huaca
constructed from this hoard of Mochico sun gold. In this sacred temple, Inti healed the sick and kept death from those who honored the sun god.”

Sam had to force himself to breathe. Had these ancient Indians truly discovered some otherworldly fountain of youth? Sam only had to stare at Norman, healed and translating, to begin to believe.

“Pachacutec gave up his crown to his son and retired to this valley, leaving the governing of the Incan empire to his descendants. He and his chosen followers remained here, worshiping Inti, never dying. Soon, even the children born
in the valley were made into gods by the temple's power and given as gifts to
janan pacha
.”

With these words, the king's eyes flicked toward the south, where the tall neighboring volcano loomed. A certain brooding look grew in his eyes.

Sam had to admit a perverse internal logic to the story. If these valley dwellers never died, then sacrificing children was good population management. The resources of this volcanic valley were not unlimited and continued births would soon overwhelm the resources. The tale also succeeded in explaining the lack of elderly residents. No one aged here.

Pachacutec interrupted again, his tone bitter. “But the time of peace ended. A hundred seasons passed, and men in tall ships came, men with strange beasts and stranger tongues.”

“The Spanish,” Sam mumbled to himself.

“They kill my people, drive them from their homes. Like the jaguar, there be no escaping their teeth. They come even here. I speak to them. Tell them of Inti. I show them the temple and how it protects us. Their eyes grow hungry. They kill me, meaning to steal Inti from us.”

“They killed you?” Sam blurted out before he could stop it.

Pachacutec rubbed the back of his neck, as if kneading out some stubborn pain. He waved his other hand at Kamapak, motioning him to continue.

The shaman's words grew dour as Norman translated. “The Spanish came with lust in their hearts. And as Pachacutec had slain the Mochico king, the foreigners slew our king. Pachacutec was taken to the center of the village.” The shaman waved toward the plaza beyond. “And his head was cut from his body.”

Sam's excitement about discovering the fountain of youth dried in his chest. This last story was clearly preposterous. And if this was false, then all of the others probably were, it.
too. Just fireside fables. Whatever cured Norman had nothing to do with these stories. Still, Sam was compelled to listen 'til the end. “But you live now. How is that?”

The shaman answered, glancing almost guiltily down. “The night the Sapa Inca was slain I heard the Spanish speak of burning his body. Such a cruelty is worse than death to our people. So I sneaked out and stole my king's head from where he lay dead. With the Spanish in pursuit, I took my king to the temple and prayed to Inti. Again the god heard and proved his love.” The shaman threw another pinch of dust on the fire, a clear obeisance to his god.

Pachacutec continued the last of the tale. “The temple carried me back from death. I opened my eyes as my head lay on the altar. From my bloody mouth, I warned the strangers of Inti's anger. This show of Inti's strength made warriors into women. They screamed, wailed, tore at their hair, and ran away. The dogs sealed the lower entrance, but word of my death be already flying. The killers were captured, and their shaman sacrificed.”

Sam frowned. He knew one way to test the veracity of these stories. “What was the name of this Spanish shaman?”

Kamapak answered, voice tight with old hatred, hands balled into fists: “Francisco de Almagro.”

Pachacutec scowled at the name and spat into the fire. “We had this shaman dog captured for his blasphemies. But he fled like a coward and fouled a sacred site with his own blood. After his death, we made holes in his skull and drove out his god with ours.”

Sam sat shocked. He remembered his uncle's story of the golden substance that exploded from the mummy's skull. The ancient and modern stories seemed to match. But what these two were describing—immortality—how could it be true?

As Sam's mind roiled, the shaman finished the story as Norman continued to translate the ancient Inca language.
“After the foreigners fled, the temple slowly grew Pachacutec another body. Inti warned our king that these strange men from across the sea were too strong and too many, and Inti must be protected. So the path here was left sealed. We allowed ourselves to be forgotten. But Inti had promised Pachacutec that there would come a day when the path would reopen, a time when the Incan dynasty would begin again. When that day came, for our loyalty, our people had been promised not only their own lands back, but also the rest of the world.”

Pachacutec's eyes blazed with fire and glory. “We will rule all!”

Sam nodded. “Inkarri reborn from his secret cave.”

Pachacutec turned his back on the fire and them. “So my people have named me after my rebirth. Inkarri, child of the sun.”

“When does this path to the world below reopen?”

“When the gods of
janan pacha
are ready to leave,” Pachacutec answered, waving an arm toward the south. “Until then, we must live as the temple tells us. All who threaten Inti must be sacrificed.”

The shaman turned his back, too. Norman quietly translated, color draining from his face. “You have shown your deceit this night, hiding your shame in the cloak of night.” His last words came out pained. “At dawn, when the sun rises and Inti can see our loyalty, you will be sacrificed to our god. Your blood will stain the plaza.”

The shaman signaled with his right hand.

Sam shot to his feet, but he was too late. Incan warriors swarmed from adjacent rooms and swept over them. Sam fought, but with no success. His rifle was knocked to the stones. Disturbed parrots screamed in the trees.

“No!” Sam yelled, but neither the shaman nor the king would face them as they were dragged away.

 

Dressed in her own khakis and shirt, Maggie huddled in the shadow of the courtyard wall. Holding her breath, afraid
to move, she watched Sam and Norman being dragged away.
Sweet Jesus, what was she going to do
? She silently cursed the mule-headed Texan. He had to go charging blindly into danger. She turned and leaned her back on the stone wall. Hiding as still as a mouse, she had heard most of Pachacutec's and Inkarri's stories and knew there was no way to talk them out of this jam.

At least, she had hid Denal before coming here.

Earlier, she had heard the music in the plaza stop abruptly. She had peeked out and watched as Sam and Norman were seized. While instinct had told her to run with Denal as far and fast as possible, she had fought against it. The other two were her friends, and she could not abandon them without trying to help. So she had whisked Denal into the jungle's edge and told him to stay out of sight. Then she had sneaked back here to discover the fate of her friends.

Now she knew. Maggie peeked through a crescent-shaped hole in the courtyard wall. It was empty. Even the king and the shaman were gone. Maggie stared at the sole reason she still tarried here. Sam's Winchester rifle lay on the granite cobblestones of the courtyard. If a rescue was going to succeed, she would need that weapon.

Listening for voices, she studied the surrounding rooms for any sign of motion. It seemed clear. Her hands trembled with fear at what she was about to attempt. She bit her lip, refusing to let panic into her heart. Sam and Norman were depending on her. Taking a final deep breath, she grabbed the top of the wall, pulled herself up, and hooked a leg over the edge. She struggled for a few moments, then managed to boost herself over.

With her heart thundering in her throat, Maggie dropped into the courtyard. A blue-and-gold macaw ruffled its feathers, watching her, still tense from the excitement a few moments ago. Maggie willed the bird to remain quiet and crept to the foliage's edge. The rifle lay only ten meters away. She just needed to dash across the open space, grab the rifle, then flee back over the wall.

It sounded easy until Maggie's legs began to tremble under her. She knew she would have to act now or lose herself to panic. Clenching her fists, she pushed from the shadows of the trees and ran across the cobbles. Her hands settled upon the stock of the rifle just as voices sounded behind her. Someone was returning! She froze like a deer in headlights, fear paralyzing her. She could not move, could not think.

Suddenly, a log in the fire popped, loud as the blast from a starter's gun.

It was what she needed. A gasp of fear escaped her throat, releasing her. She snatched the rifle and ran, not caring who might hear her. Terror gave her legs. She flew through the foliage and over the wall in a heartbeat.

She sank gratefully into the shadows, rifle clutched to her chest.

The voices behind her grew louder. Gulping air as silently as she could, she turned and peeked into the courtyard. It was Kamapak and Pachacutec returning. She watched the tattooed shaman cross to the yard's center and throw a handful of powder into the fire. Azure flame danced to the rooftops, then died back down.

The two men spoke in their native tongue. The only word decipherable was the name
Inkarri
. The king seemed reluctant to do what the shaman wanted, but finally his shoulders sagged, and he nodded.

Straightening and stepping near the fire, Pachacutec reached to his shoulder and pulled the gold
tupu
pin that held his robe. The fine cloth fell like a flow of water from his body to pool around his ankles. The Sapa Inca stepped free of his robe, naked of all except his
llautu
headpiece and his staff.

A hand flew to Maggie's lips, clamping away her cry of shock. But something must have been heard. The king glanced to the courtyard wall, staring for a long breath, then turned away.

Maggie's stomach churned with acid. But she knew better
than to move. She could not risk the scuff of stone alerting them further to her presence. She stared.

From the neck up, the king's skin was the familiar mocha brown of the Andean Indians, but from the neck down, his skin was as pale as something found under a rock. It reminded Maggie of the beastly predators that haunted the caverns below. But Pachacutec's skin was even paler, almost translucent. Vessels could be seen moving blackish blood under his skin; bones appeared as buried shadows. The man's belly and chest were flat, hairless. Not even nipples or a navel marred the smooth surface. He was also sexless, completely lacking external genitalia.

Sexless and unnaturally smooth. Maggie found one word coming to mind as she stared at this strange apparition.
Unformed
. It was as if the king's body were a blank slate waiting to be molded, like pale clay.

Oh, God
. The realization dawned on her.

The story of Inkarri was true
!

 

Henry stared out the window as the helicopter banked over the jungle-stripped ruins. He had not slept all night. Worries and fears had kept him awake as their bird flew over the midnight jungles. He had yet to come up with any plan to thwart his captors. And without the additional stop to refuel, their flight from the guerrilla airstrip had been shortened. Time was running out.

Below, the campsite was still dark. The sun had yet to rise. Only a set of work lights near the base of the buried pyramid illuminated the dig. Apparently, even after the news of the students' escape, work continued to open the temple. The abbot's people sought every scrap of their precious
el Sangre del Diablo
.

The abbot, wearing a radio headpiece, yelled over the roar of the rotors. “We're here, Professor Conklin! I assume that I do not need to remind you what will happen if you fail to cooperate fully!”

Henry shook his head.
Joan
. She was still being held hostage at the Abbey. Any punishment for failings on his part would be exacted against her. Henry cleared his throat
and pointed to the abbot's radio headpiece. “Before we land, I want to speak to Dr. Engel. To make sure she's unharmed.”

The abbot frowned, not in anger but in disappointment. “I am faithful to my word, Professor Conklin. If I say she will remain safe, she will.”

Only until you have what you want
, Henry thought dourly. His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me if I doubt your hospitality. But I would still like to speak to her.”

Abbot Ruiz sighed and shrugged his large bulk. He slipped his headset off and passed it to Henry. “Be quick. We're landing.” The abbot nodded toward a cleared square not far from the students' tents.

The helicopter righted its banking turn and began to settle toward the flat stone plateau. Below, Henry spotted men with flashlights positioned at the periphery of their landing site, guiding the chopper down. Henry did not fail to notice the mud brown robes the flashlight-bearers wore. More of the abbot's monks.

Henry pulled the headpiece in place and positioned the microphone.

The abbot leaned forward and was talking to the pilot, pointing to the radio. After a minute of static, a scratchy voice filled his earphones. “Henry?”

It was Joan! He held the microphone steady. “It's me, Joan. Are you okay?”

Static blazed, then words trailed through. “…fine. Have you reached the camp?”

“Just landing now. Are they treating you well?”

“Just like the Hyatt here. Only the room service is a little slow.”

Despite her light words, Henry could hear the suppressed tension in her voice. He pictured those tiny crinkled lines that etched her eyes when she was worried. He had to swallow hard to speak. He would not let anything happen to her. “Slow room service? I'll see what I can do from here,”
Henry said. “See if I can light a fire under hotel management.”

“Speaking of fire, Henry, remember back at college we shared that classical mythology class together. I was in the Abbey's library today. They have the professor's book here. Can you believe that? Even that chapter I helped him write about Prometheus.”

Henry's brows drew together. “Small world, isn't it?” he answered blandly, going along with her ploy. Back at Rice University, the two had
never
shared such a class. Clearly Joan was trying to get a message to him. Something about the myth of Prometheus, a definite reference to Friar de Almagro's etched warning.

He heard the heightened tension in her voice. “Remember the difficulty we had in translating the line
Prometheus holds our salvation
?”

Henry chuckled with false mirth. “How could I forget it?” He clenched his hands in his lap. What was Joan hinting at? Something about
fire
. But what? What does fire have to do with salvation? And time was running short. The helicopter was about to land.

Joan must have sensed his confusion. She spoke rapidly, practically just blurting it out. “Well, I also reread the section where Prometheus slays the great Serpent. Do you remember that? Where fire was the final solution?”

Henry suddenly tensed as he realized what she was saying.
The Great Serpent. The Serpent of Eden
. Understanding dawned in him. She was offering him a way of destroying
el Sangre del Diablo
. “Sure. But I thought that event was said to be done by Hercules. Are you sure your interpretation is accurate?”

“Definitely. Prometheus packed a vicious punch. You should have seen the picture in the book. Think plastic explosive.”

“I…I understand.”

A shudder suddenly shook through the helicopter's
frame. Henry jumped in his seat, startled. Outside, the helicopter's skids bumped on the granite stones, then settled to a stop.

The abbot's face appeared before Henry's, yelling to be heard above the slowing rotors. “You've talked long enough. We've landed!” He turned to the pilot and made a slashing motion across his neck.

Henry was about to be cut off. “Joan!”

“Yes, Henry!”

He clutched his microphone tightly, struggling with words he thought he'd never speak to another woman. “I just wanted to tell you that…that I—” Static blasted in his ears as the radio contact suddenly ended.

Wincing, Henry stared at the radio. What had he wanted to say to Joan? That he was falling in love with her? How could he presume she shared any deeper feelings than mere friendship?

The radio was taken from his numb fingers.

Either way, the chance was gone.

 

As two Incas stood guard, Sam struggled with the woven grass ropes that bound his hands behind his back, but he only succeeded in tightening them.

Beside him, Norman sat on the stones of the plaza, shivering slightly. The photographer had long given up trying to free himself, resolved as he was to the inevitability of their deaths.

Already the skies paled to the east, heralding the approach of dawn, but the village still lay cast in grays and blacks. Once the sun fully rose and the streets were bathed in golden light, the two would be sacrificed to the sun god, Inti.

But at least, it was just the
two
of them.

Maggie and Denal had managed to escape. All night long, men had been searching the terraced village and surrounding jungle, but with no luck. Maggie must have heard the commotion from Sam's capture and run off with the boy, disappearing into the dark jungle. But how long could
the two remain hidden once the sun was fully up? Sam prayed Denal and Maggie could avoid capture until his uncle arrived with help. But when would that be? He had no way of knowing. His walkie-talkie was still inside his vest, but with his arms bound behind him, there was nothing he could do.

He yanked on his bonds. If he could only free a hand…

A rifle blast suddenly pierced the quiet dawn. The crack echoed over the valley, but it clearly came from the east.
Maggie
! She must have been discovered.

Both guards turned in the direction of the rifle shot. They spoke hurriedly as more men poured into the square, led by Kamapak. With much chattering, the group of barefooted hunters took off toward the forest's edge. The tattooed shaman waved even the two guards away to aid in the search.

Bound tight, Sam and Norman were not a threat.

Once the square was empty, Kamapak crossed to them. He wore a worried expression.

Sam suspected the shaman feared his god's wrath if
all
these foreigners were not slain at dawn.

In his hands, Kamapak bore small bowls of paint. He knelt beside Norman and spoke to the photographer as he placed down his dyes, then slid a long narrow flint knife from his sashed belt.

As the man spoke, Sam stared hungrily at the shard of sharpened stone. How he longed to grab that weapon.

Norman groaned after the shaman finished his explanation.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“It seems the shaman has come to prepare us for the sacrifice,” Norman said, meeting Sam's eye. He nodded to the dyes. “Marks of power are to be written on our bodies.”

The shaman dipped a finger in the red dye, intoning a prayer loudly, then picked up the splinter of flint.

Norman's gaze followed the blade, his face paling. He glanced sidelong at Sam, but he kept one eye on Kamapak.

“What else?” Sam asked, sensing something unspoken.

“Before the sun rises, he also plans to cut out our tongues…so our screams don't offend Inti.”

“Great…” Sam said sourly.

Kamapak raised his knife toward the growing dawn. As he continued his chanted prayer, the bright edge of the sun rose above the eastern lip of the volcanic cone. Like an awakening eye, Sam thought. For a moment, he understood the Incas' worship of the sun. It was like some immense god peeking down on their lowly world. Kamapak sliced his thumb with his knife, greeting the sun with his own blood.

Even though Sam's own life was threatened, a small part of him watched the ritual with clear fascination. Here was an actual Incan sacrificial rite, a dead tradition coming to life. He studied the tiny pots of natural dyes: red from rose madder, blue from indigo, purple from crushed mollusks.

As Kamapak continued his prayers, Norman suddenly stiffened beside the Texan. Sam glanced up from his study of the dyes to see a figure break from the cover of a nearby doorway. He almost gasped as he recognized the figure:
It was Maggie
.

Behind Kamapak's back, she dashed across the stones, barefooted like the hunters—but, also like the warriors, she was
armed
. In her right hand was a long wooden cudgel.

Kamapak must have sensed the danger. He began to turn, but Maggie was already there. She swung the length of hardened wood and struck a fierce blow to the side of the shaman's head. The blow sounded like a softball struck by a Louisville Slugger. Kamapak was knocked to his hands, then fell to his face, unmoving. Blood welled through the man's dark hair.

Sam stared, too shocked to react for a few seconds. He turned to face Maggie. She seemed equally stunned by her act. The cudgel fell from her limp fingers to clatter on the granite cobbles.

“The knife,” Sam said, drawing her gaze from the limp
form of the shaman. He nodded toward the sliver of flint and twisted around to indicate his roped wrists.

“I've got my own,” Maggie said, alertness returning in a rush. She glanced around the plaza and drew forth the gold dagger from her belt. She hurriedly sliced Sam's lashed wrists.

Sam jumped to his feet, rubbing his wrists. He stepped over to check on Kamapak. The shaman lay unmoving, but his chest did rise and fall. Sam let out a relieved breath. The man was just unconscious.

Maggie passed Sam the gold dagger after freeing Norman, then helped pull the photographer to his feet. “Can you both run?”

Norman nodded weakly. “If I have to…”

Voices sounded from nearby. Somewhere a woman's voice was raised in alarm. “It looks like you'll have to,” Maggie said.

In unison, they all turned to run, but they were already too late.

Around the square, armed men and women entered from streets and alleys. Sam and the others were herded to the center of the plaza and surrounded.

Sam noticed Norman had the shaman's shard of flint gripped in one fist. The photographer lifted it. “If they mean to take my tongue, they're gonna have to fight me for it.”

“Where's Denal?” Sam whispered.

“I left him with the rifle,” Maggie answered. “He was supposed to lead the others away so I could try and free you. We were to rendezvous in the jungle.”

“I don't think that plan's gonna work,” Norman said. He pointed his flint knife. “Look.”

Across the square, one of the hunters held Sam's Winchester in his grip. He handled the weapon as if it were a poisonous snake. The man sniffed slightly at the barrel's end, crinkling his nose.

“Denal…” Maggie mumbled.

There was no sign of the boy.

Agruff voice sounded behind them. They turned.

Pachacutec pushed through the crowd. He was in full raiment, from feathered crown to fanciful robe. He lifted his staff. The golden sunburst caught the first rays of the rising sun and glinted brightly.

The king spoke slowly in Inca, while Norman translated. “We have captured the strangers in our midst. Inti rises for his sacrifice. Revive Kamapak so the gods can be honored.”

Off to the side, a trio of women worked on Kamapak. They bathed his face in cold water and rubbed his limbs while chanting. Slowly Kamapak's arms began to move. Then his eyes flickered open. He seemed blind for a moment until the memory of his assault returned. Anger shone in his gaze. Weakly pushing away the women, he shoved to his feet. He wobbled a bit, but one of the hunters helped steady him.

Kamapak ambled shakily toward his king.

Pachacutec spoke again, this time in English, drawing the eyes of the students. “It be an honor to give blood to Inti. You disgrace our god with your fighting.”

By now, the sun had risen enough that the center of the square was bathed in sunlight. Sam brandished his dagger, bright in the morning light. Disgrace or not, he wasn't going to give his blood without drawing the same from his attackers. He raised the knife higher, wishing he had a more intimidating weapon, something to strike terror.

With this thought, the handle of the dagger grew warm and the length of gold blade shimmered and twisted, spreading and curving, until the form of a striking snake sprouted from the hilt. Sam froze, afraid to move, unsure what had just happened.

He stared at the transformed dagger. Gold fangs were open to the sun, threatening the gathered throng.

Pachacutec had taken a step back when the transformation had started. He now took a step nearer, eyes wide with awe.