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felt nothing as he rolled the Conquistador’s body over and into the water. The body sank slowly, first the torso bending in on itself, then the legs, and finally the arms, the palms of the pale hands turned upward as if releasing their grip on the world.
    When the hands faded from view, the emptiness spread through Tupac, from his arms to his chest and then to his legs, until it felt like a smooth, cold stone weighing down his soul. He would never forget that moment, even when he was old and bedridden. He would see the Conquistador falling, for a hundred years, and no matter how many places he visited, no matter how many adventures he had, no matter how many memories he filled his mind with, he could not stop seeing that slow fall, or stop feeling the sword, as if it had entered his body, as if he had fallen into the dark wet lapping of waves, into the unending dream of drowning . . . .

THE EMPEROR’S REPLY

    I
    The last Incan Emperor, Tupac Amaru, had neither eaten nor drunk for three days in his tower above Vilcapampa, the Spaniards neglecting him as they tightened their control over the city. But now, over the ghostly moans of the dying, Tupac heard footsteps on the stairs outside his room.
    It was a large, drafty room, for the invaders had stripped it of everything except a chair and the burnished salt birch floor, which they could not carry away with them. They had bound Tupac Amaru to the chair with rough hemp, positioning him near the only window. Outside, the Sun God Inti, father of the divine messenger, the hummingbird, faded in the west. In the courtyard below, the Spaniards had begun to slaughter llamas and alpacas, their screams not unlike those of his nobles from the days and nights before.
    But he remained calm, even as he had remained calm when, on the second day of his imprisonment, he had seen the likeness of his son Hualpa — whom he had sent into southern exile five days before — in the clefts of rock and shadow.
    Despite, or perhaps because of, the numbness in his limbs, the burning thirst, his son’s image had become sharper, etched into the land with a permanence that mocked Tupac’s own failing strength.
    Ichnoti and Tuectolt formed his son’s eyes: turquoise lakes pooling on a hilly shelf outside the city’s walls. Tupac had taken Hualpa there in the summers to swim, for the lakes remained icy cold even during drought. The sight of his son diving deep, fearless, and then surfacing, pushing effortlessly up against the cold, hard weight of water had made the Emperor flush with pride.
    He heard the footsteps again, much closer, the sound coming to him through the rock and wood like a premonition of disaster.
    His son’s mouth was a smile formed by the union of two rivers, the Bilcapampa and the Nuexcan. At the conjoining where rapids raged they had fished for gar and trout. His nose was a slope of granite worn down by erosion. Hualpa had often smelled of sweet plums plucked without permission from his mother’s orchard, his poncho stained with their juice. How fleet of foot his son had been under the towers of Vilcapampa! How quick to learn!
    The footsteps paused outside his door. He closed his eyes and prayed to Inti for his son’s safety.
    As the door opened, twilight settled over the city.
    II
    Captain Gaspar de Sotelo entered the Emperor’s room with a priest at his elbow, a dour Dominican carrying a crucifix and a bottle of holy water. Behind them strode two swarthy soldiers. The gleam of gold had eclipsed the pupils of the soldiers’ eyes until their level gaze was the distillation and reflection of gold and everything that passed across their field of vision was sifted through a sieve of gold. They stood at attention to either side of the Emperor’s chair, their swords clanging against muddy armor.
    In Castilian Spanish, the Captain said, “We have established control over Vilcapampa. We have routed the armies of your allies.” He paused for emphasis, his gaze darting toward