Excavation

Maggie’s words played through his mind. Miracles. Had the Incas stumbled upon some wondrous font of healing? The equivalent of Ponce de Leon’s mythic fountain of youth. Sam’s mouth grew dry at the thought of discovering such a find.

Listening to the crowd quietly sing, Sam looked over the square; he again was stunned that there were no children, no babes in arms or toddlers clinging to their mothers’ hems. Nor were any elders mixed with these younger men and women. All the faces singing up at the full moon overhead were too uniform, all near the same age.

Who were these people? What had they discovered? A sudden shiver, that had nothing to do with the cooling valley, passed through Sam.

Finally, a hush spread like a wave over the square. Sam’s eyes were drawn to the plaza’s south side as the celebrants all fell to their knees. The small woman who had led the singing climbed off her pedestal and knelt, too. Soon only a solitary figure remained. He stood on the far side, unmoving, tall for an Inca, at least six feet. He bore a staff with a sunburst symbol at its top.

Maggie urged them all to kneel, too. “It must be the Sapa Inca,” she whispered.

Sam settled to his knees, not wanting to offend this leader. Any cooperation would depend on this fellow’s good graces.

The man slowly moved through the crowd. Men and women bowed their foreheads to the stones as he passed. No one spoke. Though not borne atop the usual golden litter of the Sapa Incas, the man wore the raiments of kings: from the llautu crown of woven braids with parrot feathers and red vicuna wool tassels, down to a long robe of expensive cumbi cloth decorated with appliques of gold and silver. Even his sandals were made of alpaca leather and decorated with rubies. In his right hand, he bore a long staff, as tall as the man himself, topped by a palm-sized gold sunburst.

Norman mumbled, “The staff. I remember it. From the tunnel shaft.”

Sam glanced at the photographer and saw the man’s nervous fear. He touched Norman’s shoulder in a gesture of support.

As the king neared, Sam studied his features. Typical Incan: mocha-colored skin, wide cheeks, full strong lips, dark eyes that pierced. In each earlobe was a disc of gold stamped with a sunburst icon that matched his staff’s headpiece.

The Sapa Inca stepped to within three yards of the kneeling trio. Sam nodded in a show of respect. It was not fitting to stare directly at Incan rulers. They were the sun’s children, and as with the sun itself, one’s eyes must be diverted from the brightness. Still, Sam refused to touch his head to the stones of the plaza.

The Incan king did not seem to take offense. His gaze was intense but not hostile. With a look of burning curiosity, he took one more step toward them. His shadowed face was now aglow in the fiery light from a nearby torch, forging its ruddy planes into a coppery gold.

Maggie gasped.

Sam’s brow crinkled at her reaction, and he dared stare more openly at the man-then it struck him, too. “My God…” he mumbled, stunned. This close, there could be no mistaking the resemblance, especially with the torch bathing the king’s countenance in a golden light. They had all seen this man before. He matched the figure sculpted in gold back in the caverns, both the life-size idol guarding the booby-trapped room and the towering statue in the center of the necropolis.

The Sapa Inca took one step closer. With the torchlight gone from his face, he became just a man again. He studied them all for several silent moments. The plaza was as quiet as a tomb. Finally, he lifted his staff and greeted them. “I am Inca Inkarri,” he said in English, his voice coarse and guttural. “Welcome. May Inti keep you safe in his light.”

Sam remained kneeling, too stunned to move.

The king tapped his staff twice on the stone, then raised it high. On this signal, warbling cheers rose from a hundred throats. Men and women leaped to their feet, the drums thundered, flutes and tambourines added their brightness.

The Sapa Inca ignored the commotion and lowered his staff.

Kamapak appeared like a ghost from the dancing crowd. The shaman’s face beamed with radiant awe, his tattoos almost glowing against his flushed skin. “Qoylluppaj Inkan, Inti Yayanchis,” he intoned, bowing slightly at the waist, and continued to speak. Even without any translation, Kamapak was obviously begging some boon from this king.

Once the shaman was finished, the Sapa Inca grunted a terse answer and waved Kamapak away. The shaman’s smile broadened, clearly having obtained a favorable answer, and stepped back. The king nodded soberly at Sam’s group, his eyes lingering a moment on Denal; then he swung back around and followed the shaman through the clusters of celebrants.

“I guess we passed muster,” Sam said, breathing again.

“And were summarily dismissed,” Maggie added.

Sam turned to Norman. “What were they saying?”