Temple

And whenever I contemplated the issue more closely, my mind would always return to two things: my total and utter disillusionment at the despicable acts of those men I called my countrymen, and—conversely—my admiration of the Incan people's stoic refusal to disclose the secret location of their idol in the face of such overwhelming adversity.

Indeed, never had I witnessed such unfailing devotion. I envied their faith. I had heard tell of Hernando torturing entire villages in his obsessive search for the idol, had heard of the atrocities he had committed. I wondered how I would act if I were to see my own kinfolk butchered, tortured, murdered. In those circumstances, would I disclose the location of Jerusalem?

In the end, I decided that I would and I was doubly ashamed.

And so despite myself, my Faith and my allegiance to my country, I decided to help Renco.

I left the hulk and returned later that night, bringing with me a young page—an Incan named Tupac—just as Renco had instructed me. We both wore hooded cloaks against the cold and kept our hands folded inside our sleeves.

We came to the guard station on the riverbank. As it happened, since most of my country's forces were at Cuzco partaking in the looting there, only a small group of soldiers were on hand in the tent village near the hulk. Indeed, only a lone night guard—a fat slovenly thug from Madrid with liquor on his breath and dirt under his fingernails—guarded the bridge that led to the hulk.

After taking a second glance at young Tupac—it was not uncommon at that time for young Indians to serve as pages for monks like myself—the night guard belched loudly and ordered us to inscribe our names on the register.

I scratched both of our names in the book. Then when I had finished, the two of us stepped onto the narrow wooden footbridge that stretched out from the riverbank over to a door set into the side of the prison hulk in the middle of the river.

No sooner had we stepped past the filthy night guard, however, than the young Tupac whirled around quickly and grabbed the man from behind and twisted his head, breaking his neck in an instant. The guard's body slumped in its chair. I winced at the sheer violence of the act, but strangely I found that I felt little sympathy for the guard. I had made my decision—had pledged my allegiance to the enemy—and there was no turning back now.

My young companion quickly took the guard's rifle and his pistallo -or 'pistol' as some of my countrymen were now calling them—and, last of all, his keys. Tupac then affixed a stone weight to the dead guard's foot and dropped the body into the river.

In the pale blue moonlight, we crossed the rickety wooden footbridge and entered the hulk.

The interior guard leapt to his feet as we entered the cage room but Tupac was far too quick for him. He fired his pistol at the guard without missing a step. The explosion of the gunshot in the enclosed space of the prison hulk was deafening. Prisoners all around us awoke with a start at the sudden terrifying sound.

Renco was already on his feet as we came to his cage.

The guard's key fitted perfectly in the lock of his cell and the door opened easily. The prisoners all around us were shouting and banging on the bars of their cages, pleading to be released. My eyes darted around in every direction and in the midst of all this uproar, I saw a sight that chilled me to my very core.

I saw the Chanca, Castino, standing in his cell—standing perfectly still—staring at me intently.

His cage now open, Renco ran over to the dead guard's corpse, grabbed his weapons and handed them to me.

'Come on,' he said, awakening me from Castino's hypnotic stare. Dressed only in the barest of prison rags, Renco quickly began to undress the dead guard's corpse. Then he hurriedly put on the guard's thick leather riding jacket, pantaloons and boots.

No sooner was he dressed than he was on his feet again, unlocking some of the other cages. I noticed that he only the cages of Incan warriors and not those of prisoners from subjugated tribes like the Chancas.

And then suddenly Renco was dashing out the door with rifle in his hand, ignoring the shouts of the other prisoners and calling for me to follow.

We dashed back across the rickety footbridge, amid of running prisoners. By this time, however, others heard the commotion on board the hulk. Four from the nearby tent village arrived at the river-bank on horseback just as we leapt off the bridge. They fired at us with their muskets, the reports of their weapons boom-like thunderclaps in the night.

Renco fired back, handling his musket like the most able Spanish infantryman, blasting one of the horsemen from his mount. The other Incan prisoners ran ahead of us and overpowered two of the other horsemen.

The last horseman brought his steed around so that it stood directly in front of me. In a flashing instant, I saw him register my appearance—a European helping these heathens.