One

Cajamarca, Peru

1533 A.D.

The incandescent sunset receded. The vivid landscape of lavender and gold hues fading into the ether, casting the world into formidable darkness. The makings of cultivated farmland, irrigation trenches, and terraced orchards led up to untapped mountains overrun by jungle where unseen predators prowled in the night.

There was a crowd gathered.

At the center of it all was the greatest Inca warrior to ever live, Atahualpa. Once a glorious emperor overseeing an empire that spanned half of South America, he’d been stripped of all his power and prestige, reduced to nothing more than a pitiful, skin-and-bones prisoner.

A prisoner charged with twelve counts of heinous crimes.

After bestowing upon him the sacred honor of baptism, Friar Valverde read off the charges one by one so that everyone in the public square could bear witness. They included usurpation of the crown, idolatry, and for slaying his own brother during the bloody civil war.

“Do you acknowledge your guilt of these crimes before the Lord your God and the crown of Castile?” the noble-minded friar questioned.

Bound in a throne-like chair with a colorful feathered headdress, the proud Incan warrior cast a sharp, defiant eye on the watchful crowd encircling him. They gawked at him with impunity, sowing discord, all anticipating the impending execution with righteous glee. Their faces reflected as shapeshifting ghouls in the festering firelight.

Atahualpa inhaled sharply as if drawing in his very last breath. He didn’t bother responding. What was done was done and his fate was sealed. No words by him would change that. He’d made the grave mistake of trusting the invaders, in awe of their God-like splendor, brilliant armor that shone as bright as the sun, the magical tools of warfare they willed at command and the strange, graceful beasts they rode upon into battle. His entire way of life had been eradicated, family and loved ones slaughtered before him, villages burned to the ground, precious belongings pillaged or destroyed.

Those that did survive later succumbed to horrible diseases like smallpox, typhoid, or influenza.

After hearing no response from the prisoner, the friar nodded meekly as if silence alone was an admission of guilt. The crowd around him was also inclined to concur, murmuring amongst themselves, casting dispersions. He turned to the two self-appointed judges standing silently on either side of him.

Both were conquistadors of the highest order, covered in a full spectacle of burnished armor. Their fearless leader, Francisco Pizarro, who overcame overwhelming odds to conquer the Inca Empire, and his righthand man, Diego de Almagro, a hawkish military specialist.

The friar stood by for the order.

Both conquistadors gave a definitive nod.

Returning his attention to the subject, the friar sensed the crowd growing restless.

“On this day, August 29^th, I hereby sentence you to death.” Valverde traced a cross over his chest and stepped away, unable to feast his eyes upon what came next.

The executioner stepped forth, a behemoth of a man, his face hidden under a medieval black hood with eye slits cut out. He garroted Atahualpa before the jeers and angst of the bloodthirsty crowd.

When it was finally over, Valverde approached the motionless figure, checking for a pulse. He confirmed to the crowd that the victim was deceased.

Something fell from the clutches of the dead man’s grasp. The friar reached down and picked the peculiar object off the ground.

It was a tiny gold idol, the size of a person’s thumb, a replica of one of the native’s pagan deities. Not wanting the blasphemous object in his possession, fearing it may be cursed, he turned it over to his commander, Francisco Pizarro.