The villac leads me through a series of long, twisting tunnels, back toward the giant cavern with the monstrous inti watana stone. Many of the tunnels are lit—for the benefit of the Snakes, I presume—and I seize the opportunity to study the villac’s featureless face, extremely pale skin, light brown hair and delicate hands.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“I have none,” he answers. “I am a servant of Inti, and he requires no names. He recognizes his sons by the burning fires of their souls.”
“Inti? Oh yeah, the god of the sun.”
He stops and his empty eyes narrow slightly. “You do not believe?”
“No. In this day and age I’m surprised to find anyone who does.”
The priest smiles. “If our powers are not god-given, how else do you explain us bringing the dead back to life?”
He starts walking again. I follow silently, unable to think of a reply.
As we draw closer to the cavern, I hear many people muttering, whispering and shuffling. I slow down. “Come,” the priest encourages me. “There is nothing to be afraid of. We will not harm you.”
“That’s not what worries me.” I nod in the direction of the voices—I keep forgetting he can’t see—and say, “That sounds like the Snakes.”
“Of course.”
“I thought we might be going to meet Capac Raimi,” I test him.
To my surprise he answers directly. “Not yet. You aren’t ready to take your place by his side. When you are, we will introduce you.”
“You have him?”
“Yes. Now come. Your children are restless. We must not keep them waiting.”
Letting the Raimi confirmation slide, I follow the priest to an opening in the side of the huge cavern, where I stand, hidden in shadows, observing the scene below. The cavern’s crowded, yet nowhere near full, with the hundreds of young men and women of the Snakes. All seven triumvirates must be here. The men outnumber the women by roughly fifteen to one and there are even more blacks to whites. All are bald and tattooed, clad in T-shirts and jeans, except for the Cobras, who also sport leather jackets.
The Snakes are lined up in ranks behind the giant inti watana stone, on which stands a lone villac, head bowed, three buckets at his feet. The troops are standing to attention, but slackly. Many talk softly and shuffle on the spot. The Cobras patrol the ranks, admonishing those who get out of order but allowing the softer murmurs and shuffling to continue.
I step back from the ledge, troubled. “What are they waiting for?”
“Their leader,” the priest replies. “They worship him, but he appears rarely, preferring to work through us. They’ve been told he is to address them today.”
“They’re waiting for Wami?”
“Yes.”
“You can resurrect him this swiftly?”
“No. Mama Ocllo works fast, but not that fast.”
“Who the hell’s Mama…?” I stop, eyes widening. “You want me to face them.”
The priest smiles. “You’re sharp, Flesh of Dreams. Yes, we wish you to play your father here, as you have above.”
“No,” I snap. “I won’t.”
I don’t know why I react so violently. I’m always inclined to say no to any proposal of the villacs, but it’s not just that. I sense a trap.
“They will be disappointed if their leader does not show,” the priest demurs.
“Like I give a fuck.”
“You should. The Snakes are only important to us because of you. If you show no interest in them, we will dispense with their service. That would necessitate elimination. We’d introduce some fatal, fast-working poison to their food.”
“You’d slaughter your own soldiers?” I snort.
“But they’re not ours. They’re Paucar Wami’s.”
“You’d do it too,” I growl disgustedly. “Murder them at their dinner table and leave them to rot.”
“We do what we must,” the villac says pompously.
I shrug. “So kill them. What do I have to lose?”
“Some friends,” the priest purrs, “and many brothers and sisters.”
“Brothers and sisters my ass. Just because most are the same color as me, it doesn’t…” I grimace. “You’re not talking figuratively, are you?”
“Forty are of your blood. We reaped the harvest of Paucar Wami’s bastards, drawing all that we could. They don’t know he sired them. We recruited them the same as the others and treat them no differently.”
I stumble back to the opening and gaze upon the massed ranks. With their shaven heads, tattoos and uniforms, they could all be his children, even the paler members—Wami chose white women as well as black.
“What makes you think I care about half siblings I’ve never met?” I ask gruffly.
“Ties of blood are usually impossible to ignore.”
“You won’t kill them,” I challenge him. “If I don’t play along with your plans, you’ll have to turn to another of Wami’s children. You won’t kill those you need.”
“But we don’t need them,” he retorts. “We have already chosen our alternatives in case you fail us. Those few will be spared. All others are expendable.”
I breathe in deeply, silently cursing the villacs and their knack for getting under my skin. First they use Raimi and Bill to draw me in. Now they introduce me to forty of my closest relatives and tell me they’ll be executed like vermin if I don’t toe the line. I hate these white-eyed dogs, but I can’t help but admire their cunning.
“What do you want?” I sigh, as if they’ve called my bluff. In fact they haven’t. As loath as I am to let these kids die, I will sacrifice them if the priests demand too much of me. But I don’t want them to know that. Not yet.
“We want you to take your place on the inti watana when it is raised above the folds of the earth, and help us rule this city. But that’s a position you must come to voluntarily. For now we wish you merely to parade before the Snakes as their master.”
“I just have to pretend to be Wami, then I can go?”
“Yes.”
“If I do this, will you tell me where Capac Raimi is?”
“No.”
I don’t like it—I feel the walls of a trap closing in—but I decide to play along, to learn more about the Snakes and where they fit in with the priests’ plans.
Without making a performance of it, I slip off my wig and wipe the paint from my face with a handkerchief. Normally I use moisturizing lotions to remove it, but here I settle for spit. As I’m rubbing hard with the handkerchief, a second villac appears and hands me a T-shirt, leather jacket and jeans. I strip and put them on, then the first priest reaches into a pocket and produces a pair of green contacts.
“You think of everything, don’t you?” I snipe.
“We try,” he replies.
I sourly slip them in and the transformation is complete. Showtime!
A third villac is waiting for me in the cavern, with a microphone. “I won’t need that,” I wave him away.
“It is not so much to clarify as to disguise,” the English-speaking priest from the tunnels says. “Your father always addresses them this way. It muffles his words, as it will yours. Without that distortion, sharp ears might note the differences in your voices. This way we hope to—”
“—Cover your asses,” I finish for him.
He smiles stiffly. The priest with the mike attaches it to the neck of my T-shirt, the control box to my waistband, then reaches for my left ear.
“What’s he up to?” I scowl, slapping his hands away.
“A receiver, for instructions. We will tell you what to say.”
I let him fit the piece in my ear. As soon as it’s in place, a voice comes over it. “Testing, one-two, testing.”
“One of our brothers,” the first villac replies. “Is it working?”
“Yes.”
“Then proceed. Words will be fed to you as and when you need them.”
“What do I do?” I ask nervously—I was never comfortable speaking in public.
“Walk to the inti watana. Examine your troops. Be Paucar Wami.”
The priests withdraw. I’m alone, hidden by shadows. There’s an exit close by. I could make a break for freedom. But where would I run to? The answers are here.
Steeling myself, I head for the huge circular stone. I’m spotted immediately. There are excited gasps, then the sound of heels snapping together. I tread softly, glancing only briefly left and right as I converge on the young soldiers and pass through their ranks. Each of the Snakes lifts his or her head a couple of inches when I pass, saluting me. The Cobras, standing out from their charges, drop to one knee and rest their palms flat on the floor, heads bowed. I search for the Cobra of the second triumvirate, the one who guided me to my father’s room, but they all look the same when viewed crown-on.
As I near the platform, the villac on it lifts his head and walks to the edge to greet me. “Spread your arms wide,” a voice whispers in my ear, and this time it’s the voice of the priest who led me to the cavern. “Let him press his fingertips to yours and kiss the place on your chin where the heads of your tattoos meet.”
Spreading my arms as ordered, I stop at the platform and lean forward as the blind priest touches his fingers to mine. Muttering something unintelligible, he puts his lips to the spot below my lower lip and kisses the heads of my tattooed snakes. There’s a soft hissing sound and when he draws away his tongue flicks out at me—it’s forked.
I almost draw back from his serpentine tongue, but Paucar Wami never flinches, so I hold myself steady. Then the priest opens his mouth to chant some more and his tongue is normal again. Maybe it always was and I just imagined the fork.
The villac drones on for several minutes. I stand without moving, arms outstretched, awaiting further instructions.
Finally he stops and walks to the three buckets, which he transfers to the edge of the platform.
“Face the Snakes,” comes the voice. “Say what I tell you.”
I turn and repeat the words of the villac as they’re fed to me. If I was doing this as Al Jeery, I’m sure I’d stumble and stutter. But as Paucar Wami I’m fearless and eloquent, a natural orator.
“Our time is almost at hand. For long years we have existed anonymously. That is soon to change. Those who matter in the city have heard of us and grow anxious. Soon all will tremble at the sound of our name.”
My voice echoes around the cavern and is absorbed by eager ears. Many of the young men and women are grinning. A few even nudge their companions and wink.
“But we must be patient a while longer,” I caution them. “Our enemies turn on one another like dogs, but we must wait until they are fully engaged before we act, lest they sense our threat and unite against us.”
“Face the villac on the inti watana,” the voice whispers. I do as instructed, then continue.
“In preparation for your rise, you will now be blooded. You have come through much, but there is much still to endure. Let this be a reminder of what you have sacrificed, and a promise of what you will enjoy.”
The buckets are filled with blood. It could be the blood of animals, but I’m sure it isn’t. “Vegetarians should leave the building,” I mutter, unprompted, and there are ghoulish giggles.
“This is the blood of the conquered,” the voice says, and I repeat the words obediently. “The blood of the weak and impure. To cleanse this city, you must first taste of its foulness. Hold the blood down when you drink. Those who cannot stomach it have no place here and will be cast out.”
Three villacs march from the side of the cavern, chanting as they walk. They accept the buckets from their colleague on the platform, then weave through the ranks, offering the blood to each Snake in turn, not moving on until the soldier has drunk and kept down the thick red liquid. I speak as they administer the blood.
“Take a mouthful, no more, no less. Those who cannot drink of this city are not wanted, but nor are those who would drink too much. Only those who can drink in moderation are desired.”
I wait for more instructions, but there are none, so I stand and watch as the Snakes complete the bloody ritual, lips red, faces impassive. Nobody rejects or vomits up the blood. Maybe they’ve tried it before. I’m prepared to accept an offering if it’s made, but the buckets aren’t presented to me.
When the last of the Snakes has drunk, the buckets are returned to the platform and the villac stacks them behind the thrones. I’m told to mingle with the troops, making comments or asking questions. “But none about us,” I’m warned.
I prowl the ranks arrogantly, as my father would, studying the soldiers, trying to spot relatives. They stand three abreast, six deep, a gap between each phalanx, a larger space between each triumvirate. At the rear stand eleven separated members, rawer than the rest. New recruits, the beginnings of the eighth triumvirate.
I recall how the sergeants in the Troops treated me when I first joined. I stop at the back of one of the phalanxes and tap a burly teenager on the shoulder. He turns his head inquisitively and I punch his jaw hard, knocking him to the floor. “Did I tell you to look around?” I roar.
“No, sir,” he responds, face flushed, almost grinning through the pain—it’s an honor to be singled out by their leader, even for punishment.
“Get to your feet.” He stands. Medium height, heavy build, a wide, open face. Slightly foggy eyes. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Leonard, sir, first phalanx, sixth triumvirate.”
“Been with us long, Leonard?”
“Three years, two months, six days, sir.”
“An impressive memory.”
“I keep track on a calendar.”
I lean in close. “Tonight, take that calendar, tear it up and burn it.”
He hesitates. “But… sir… it belongs to—”
I club the back of his head. “I didn’t ask for a debate. I gave an order.”
“Yes, sir!” he shouts.
I swivel away from him and address the others. “That goes for the rest of you. Focus on the present. Embrace it. Breathe it. Become it. Cut yourself off from the world of time. If you do not, you belong to that world, and that means you don’t belong to me.”
By the shine of their faces I see that I’ve made an impression, and I feel the ridiculous stirrings of pride in my chest. I quickly quash it. These are pawns of the villacs, thus my potential enemies. I should cut the Patton shit. Get the inspection over with quickly and…
I’m hurrying past the eleven newcomers at the rear when one catches my eye. I move up close, making sure I’m not mistaken, and he takes a worried step back. “Drake? What the fuck are you doing here?” Flo’s boy gawps, astonished to be addressed by the legendary Paucar Wami. “Answer me!”
“I… I’m a Snake… sir.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A couple of weeks. I sneak back home every few days, but—”
“Does your mother know about this?”
“Of course not.” His spirit rises and he faces up to me squarely.
I start to ask what he thinks Flo would say if she knew, then remember who I’m meant to be. I step back from Drake. “Tell me why you’re here, boy. What brought you to this notorious den of thieves… this disreputable pit of snakes?” There are amused laughs. But Drake is deathly serious.
“I want to protect my mother, sir.”
“How?”
“By learning to fight. The city’s about to blow, but we’ve got nobody to fight for us, to stand up to the Troops or the fucking Kluxers.”
“Fucking Kluxers” is echoed by several Snakes. I silence the murmurs with a wave of a hand.
“Go on,” I tell Drake. “Say it so that everyone can hear.” Making it sound as if it’s for the crowd’s benefit, not mine.
“The Snakes will protect their people in the east,” Drake says seriously. “We’ll push back the Troops and Kluxers, and anybody else who threatens those we love. We’ll control the gangs. We’ll see peace and order restored. We’ll kick the ass of anyone who fucks with us!”
He shouts the last line and is greeted with cheers. I wait for them to die down before whispering harshly, so it’s only just audible, “And then?”
Drake pauses. “Sir?”
“What will you do when the streets are yours? Will you return to your mother or retreat back here to the depths?”
“That’s enough,” the villac hisses in my ear.
I ignore him. “Tell me what happens next.”
“I don’t know, sir. No one said.”
“Who will tell this boy?” I roar. “Who knows? Who has thought this through?”
“Jeery!” the villac screeches. “If you don’t quit right now, I’ll—”
A young woman raises a trembling hand. “Yes?” I ask her, tuning out the priest.
“We control, sir,” she says confidently.
“You win the streets, then keep them?”
“Yes.”
“How do you think your relatives and friends will react to that?”
She frowns.
“The public might back us against the Troops and Kluxers, but what happens when they want to return to normal, only to find—”
The English-speaking villac rushes into the cave. “Sapa Inca!” he shouts. “You must come with me. There is trouble. We need you elsewhere.”
“I am addressing my troops,” I growl. “I don’t like being interrupted when—”
“The Kluxers have attacked one of our posts. You must come.”
The Snakes mutter angrily at the mention of the Kluxers, and I know the villac has me. If I don’t accompany him, it will seem like I care more about talking big in front of my supporters than protecting them from their enemies.
“OK,” I mutter irritably, then raise my voice one last time. “But think on what I have said. Obedience is essential if you are to serve me, but a keen mind is just as important. My followers must be able to reason as well as obey.”
Turning my back on them, I trail after the priest, who hurries to an exit in the side of the cavern, where the darkness of the tunnels awaits. I don’t look back at the Snakes—Paucar Wami never looks back.
Once out of sight and earshot of the young soldiers, the villac relaxes.
“What does ‘Sapa Inca’ mean?” I ask.
“That is how we refer to Paucar Wami. It is the name we used long ago for our war leaders.” His lips crease in a sneer. “Speaking as you did was foolish. I warned you not to cross us.”
“You told me to behave as Paucar Wami would,” I counter.
“The performance was admirable,” the priest agrees, then adds cuttingly, “to a point. But prompting them to question their long-term goals was inflammatory. As soldiers it is their place to jump when we tell them, not ponder.”
“That’s where you and I differ. I think they’ve a right to know what they’re getting into, what may come of it.”
“When the Snakes are yours,” the priest sniffs, “you may treat them as you wish. But until that time, I would ask that you respect—”
“What do you mean, when the Snakes are mine?” I cut in.
“The Snakes have been recruited to serve Paucar Wami,” the priest says. “He acts as a figurehead, a symbol they can unite behind. But surely you do not think we would place such power in the hands of a psychopathic killer.”
“Listen,” I begin sharply, “if you think I’m going to lead your army, you—”
The villac raises a small pipe to his lips, blows hard and sends a cloud of pink dust flying into my face. As I cough and splutter, motes fill my lungs and my head goes light. My legs give way and the walls dissolve. “Bastard!” I shout, but the word is a whisper. I try to hit the priest but my fist blurs and my fingers turn to steam. I have a sense of unbecoming, of floating… then no sense of anything at all.
When I come to, someone’s holding my hand, leading me through a narrow tunnel. The drug’s still in my blood and my head throbs. Stopping, I wrench my hand from my guide’s and fall to my knees. I beat the floor with my fists, gritting my teeth, and that helps clear my head. The villacs drugged me before, and that time it was a long-lasting trip. But this drug isn’t as strong, and though the world around me shimmers at the edges, I’m able to recognize reality and cling to it.
“Are you all right?” my guide asks, bending to help. A woman’s voice. I slap her hands away and force my eyes to focus.
“Who are you?” I gasp.
“A friend. I’m taking you to the surface. We’re going home.”
I’m too weak to fight. Allowing the woman to grasp my elbows, I let her haul me to my feet, then lean on her for support. As we start forward, I examine her face and recognize it. “Ama Situwa,” I murmur, wondering if I’m really able to tell the difference between fantasy and reality after all.
“Yes,” she replies.
“Are you real or a vision?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. We come to a set of stairs. She pauses at the first step, looks sideways at me and says softly, “I’m not sure.”
We smile shakily at each other. I squeeze her hand for comfort and she squeezes mine. Then we climb.