The Moche Warrior (30 page)

I hesitated for a moment or two, not terribly comfortable with heights. The stairs were very narrow, open on the inside, so one false step would send me plummeting downward. Then I thought of Puma. The commune was within easy walking distance of this place. Had he, in his marijuana haze, come here? Perhaps the footprints outside the wall were his, and he’d got in the same way I had. Cities of gold you get to through cracks in the rocks, he’d said, the greatest treasure ever. I stuck my flashlight in my belt, directing the beam downward, and started my descent, pulling the woven matting back in its place over my head.

After one circuit of the perimeter on the spiral, I could no longer stand upright, but had to sit on the stairs and lower myself step by step, ducking under overhanging rock as I went. At last I stepped into the pool of water only a few inches deep at the bottom.

I was in a rock chamber not that much larger than the chute down which I had come, maybe fifteen feet in diameter, probably naturally formed by the action of water on limestone. To my right was a door, leading where I could not imagine. Against the wall to my left was a table covered in packing materials and three wooden crates, none of them yet sealed shut.

In all three crates were rows and rows of
cresoles,
the little pots found in tombs, each identical, made in the shape of a round man. All of them, as near as I could tell, were fakes, reproductions from the factory above. The workmanship was not particularly good, and they were absolutely identical, each made from the same mold. But why hide these in some subterranean vault? My idea about putting the antiquity in with a number of fakes should have meant that the objects were handled using the normal channels, not hidden away down here. There was also a sizable dolly which could transport the crates. But where from down here would you take them? You’d need a crane rather than a dolly to get them up to the surface.

I looked under the first layer of little pots and found a second, all the same. I checked the third layer. By now it was getting monotonous, rows and rows of not particularly exceptional fake ceramics. There must be something here, I told myself, keep looking. From the bottom layer, I picked a
cresole
at random and took it out to have a better look, turning it around and then looking inside. Small plastic bag, white powder: cocaine. It had to be. Cocaine was being shipped out in little Moche pots. The Paradise Crafts Factory was more aptly named than I ever would have guessed.

I went to the second crate and checked the second layer of pots, all empty, and then the third layer. I could hardly believe what I saw. Gold peanut beads, dozens of them, some of them the size of my fist, gleamed in the beam of my flashlight. Beneath them lay a golden scepter, gold breastplate, back flap, nose flap, and ear spools, not unlike the one I’d held, of gold and turquoise and other stones. I took a look at the shape of the helmet and tried to recall what Steve had told me about Moche rituals. “It’s the warrior priest,” I gasped at last. “They’ve found the tomb of a warrior priest!”

I never made it to the third box. As I reached it, I thought I heard a scraping sound above me, and tiny pinpoints of light showed through the matting above. I extinguished my flashlight quickly and moved toward the door that shouldn’t by any rights lead anywhere. There was nowhere else to hide. I heard the matting being pulled off the entrance to the chamber and a grunt as someone lowered themselves onto the steps. I grabbed the door handle and pulled. Nothing happened. Open, please, I said to myself. I yanked and the door opened. I stepped behind it, pulling the door closed behind me. I had no idea where I was, and was afraid to turn on the flashlight even for a second. I just stood there, shivering, partly in fear, but also because the air was cold and damp, with an unmistakable odor of something starting to rot. I heard a splash as the intruder stepped off into the water at the bottom.

Then, much to my surprise, the lights came on. The electrical cord, I thought. They’ve strung a cord out from the factory to light this place. There must have been a switch in the chamber which I had not seen, although it would have never occurred to me to look for a light switch in an underground chamber. I was in a long, man-made tunnel heading some distance underground. There were wires strung the length of it, and from time to time a dim bulb.

I felt terribly exposed standing there. I would be seen instantly if whoever was out there chose to open the door. On the plus side, however, I could see where I was going, and I knew where Carlos Montero had gone. His crumpled body had been stuffed into a little niche in the tunnel wall.

I turned and plunged down the tunnel. The ground rose slightly as I went along, and after about 500 yards or so, maybe more, I took a right turn and found myself at the foot of a wooden staircase leading upward. Cautiously I inched my way up to the underside of a trapdoor. I pressed my ear to the wood and listened. I could near nothing. I raised the door an inch or two. Total darkness greeted me. I pushed the door back and climbed up, shutting it behind me. I was in a little hut, about eight by ten, and windowless. There were four other crates there. Listening at the door once more, I again heard nothing, and let myself out.

It took me a second or two to get my bearings, but when my eyes adjusted, I could see the outline of the Andes against the sky. Behind the hut was a grove of trees, and beyond that, presumably, Paraiso, although I couldn’t see it for the trees; I could see nothing to the right or the left. I found myself a hiding place not far from the hut and waited. About fifteen minutes later, a dark but familiar shape emerged from the hut with the first of the crates. It was Lucho. After the crates had been stacked, which took about a half hour in all, I’d estimate, Lucho shuffled away from the hut in the direction of the mountains for several yards, and then walked parallel to the mountain range, stopping every few yards to do something I couldn’t see. I could smell gasoline. Having walked about fifty yards away from the hut, he turned left, walked about twenty feet, and then turned left and made his way back, then an equal distance past the hut, stooping over at regular intervals again, before making his way back.

Finally he went back into the hut, and I heard the trapdoor slam.

I edged my way out in the direction he had come. It was still very dark, but I could make out two straight rows of painted white stones stretching off in either direction. At regular intervals between them I found, on closer examination, old paint cans stuffed with rags doused in gasoline. It’s a runway, I realized, an illegal runway. Lucho, or someone else, would set the paint can contents ablaze at the right moment, and the aircraft would come in. The desert floor was hard, and packed flat, the stone markers were straight as arrows. The Moche artifacts, and the cocaine, would be gone that night, under cover of the new moon, and with the added benefit of everyone being distracted by the possibility of flooding. There would be absolutely no way I would be able to stop them alone.

I headed back for the truck, terrified that I’d run into Lucho. I thought the trees would provide protection, and plunged into them.
Cuidado al arbolado!
be damned, I thought. They were the only cover around. But it was also tough going, the thorns a constant hazard in the dark, slowing my progress, and distorting my sense of direction. Just as I was about to emerge from the forest, someone stepped out from behind a tree and shone a light directly in my eyes.

“Rebecca, it’s you!” the voice exclaimed.

“Puma,” I hissed. “Turn out that light. Where have you been?” For a moment I caught a glimpse of what it must be to be the parent of a teenager—the surge of emotion, part relief but also part rage, when the offspring you’ve imagined lying seriously injured, or even, God forbid, dead, in the middle of an intersection blithely reappears. I wanted to shake him and give him a good talking-to, but I didn’t have time.

“Looking for the treasure like I wrote you. Come, you’ve gotta come with me right away,” he said, pulling on my arm.

“Puma, I can’t right now. I’ve seen your treasure. Now I’ve got to go and get help. Why didn’t you come back to the commune or the hacienda?” I found myself asking.

He looked exasperated. “Because they’re after me, like I told you. The Spanish. I came to get you again, but one of them was there. So I had to hide. ”Come quickly,“ he insisted, pulling my arm roughly. ”It’s important. It’s life or death!“

“Not the ‘pocalypse again,” I said, my irritation plain. I didn’t want to shake him anymore: I was contemplating strangling him.

“No!” he exclaimed. “Real life. Now!”

This is ridiculous, I thought. But there was something in his voice, an edgy panic perhaps, that made me follow him across the sand toward a cluster of small houses not far away.

He gestured to me to be quiet and to crouch down as we drew near. Soon we were creeping across the front porch of the largest of the houses and up just beside the screen door. Inside, I heard the scraping of a chair against a wooden floor, a cough or two, and then a gruff voice said, “You are here to be tried for the murder of Rolando Guerra. How do you plead?”

God, no, I thought, leaning carefully over until I could just see into the room.

Steve Neal was standing there, his head in profile, hands tied behind his back. He did not reply to his accuser. On the far side of the room was a group of women and children. I could not see the speaker. “Go,” I said to Puma, putting my mouth right up to his ear. “Go and get the police. Here, keys to the truck, by the highway,” I said, pointing toward the clump of trees where I’d left the vehicle. Puma nodded and crept away. I hope they believe him, I thought, and I hope they hurry.

“How do you plead?” the voice inside said harshly. “Guilty or not guilty?”

Still Steve said nothing. I edged myself toward the door to see better. Steve, thinner already, with a stubble of beard, was surrounded by five men, all of whom I’d seen at Rolando Guerra’s funeral, and none of them happy. The sixth, a forty-something man I recalled having seen in the nasty confrontation at the site, was sitting at the table, the judge of this kangaroo court. A little girl, Rolando’s daughter, sat listlessly playing with a doll.

“In the absence of a plea, you have been found guilty,” the man growled. “The sentence is death, by hanging. Is there anything you have to say?”

“Yes, there is,” Steve said. The judge looked surprised, whether from Steve’s perfect Spanish, or the fact that Steve was now intent upon being heard, I couldn’t guess.

“Then say it!” the man ordered.

Steve took a deep breath and began. “It is not I who is on trial here, it is you.” The men shuffled angrily in their seats.

“Quiet!” the judge ordered. “Let him speak.”

Steve paused for a moment, then went on. “You are living in one of the most inhospitable places on the planet. This is a land of earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, floods, droughts, and disease. And yet,” he paused, “and yet, on this tiny strip of sand, wedged between the mountains and the sea, a little over two thousand years ago, a great civilization was born.

“Somehow the people of this region gained control of the waterways, built canal systems to allow the desert to bloom, for a nation to flourish. They built cities that would reflect their power, huge ceremonial centers of towering pyramids, that must have struck other people dumb with amazement. These people are now called the Moche, after the river south of here, and the language, muchic, that was spoken in ancient times.

“Their cities held the largest adobe brick structures anywhere, anytime, expressions of their might, their temporal power. There were huge ceremonial courtyards lined with astounding works of art, frescoes that may have told their whole history in a single panel. These were cities where artists flourished, a civilization wealthy enough that the elite could support an artist class, some of the most singularly gifted artists of any age. The society of the Moche was one organized around rituals, some of them bloody indeed, and yet their art soared above the bloodshed, expressing their belief in the supernatural and in the sacredness of the everyday. They buried their dead with elaborate rituals and great care. You can tell a lot about people when you know how they treat their dead,” he said, looking accusingly at every man in that room, one or two of whom squirmed visibly. “And the Moche buried even the lowliest among them with ceremony and respect.

“These people did what you do. They fished the waters off these coasts, they hunted deer, they engaged in athletic events, they had toothaches, they made war.

“How do we know these things? We know this because we are able to study the remarkable works of art they left behind. There are ceramic vessels that show us the faces of these people, portraits that we believe are uncannily accurate. There are other vessels that show us ancient fishermen using the same reed boats, the
caballitos,
that fishermen off these shores use today; we see scenes of the deer hunt, of ritual combat, of sacrifice. We look at their works, their craftsmanship, and we see a great people, the people who are your ancestors.

“Your children study the stories of the conquistadores, of Spain, Greece, and Rome. Should they not learn as much—no, should they not learn more, of the great civilizations from which they are descended? Of course they should.

“But every time you steal one of the objects the Moche created, and sell it to the
el Hombres
of this world, a little bit of your heritage is lost to you and to the rest of us. I know you are thinking that this is easy for me to say, that I live in a nice house in California, with two cars, and count as necessities things you can only dream of having, that I don’t have to struggle to put food on the table. You’re right, and I’m going to say it anyway. You are not just robbers of the dead. You rob your children of their heritage. You rob yourselves of your pride.” He paused. “That’s all I have to say.”

Not one word was uttered when he’d finished. Some of the faces I could see showed confusion, others resistance. I felt it could go either way. Then an older woman, hair long and grey, a brown shawl wrapped around her shoulders, stood up. It was Rolando Guerra’s mother, the woman who had walked dry-eyed behind his coffin. She began to speak quietly, so much so that I had to strain to hear. “I have lost an uncle to this, I have lost a husband, and now,” she said, her voice breaking, “ T have lost a son. Hear what this man says. We know why Rolando died. This man did not kill him. Rolando killed himself. This must stop. You say you do this, you rob the tombs, to make a better life for your families. But your children and your wives would rather have you with them.” The other women nodded, the older children looked on solemnly, and the young ones, sensing perhaps that something very important was happening, fell silent.