Francisco stumbled out of the jungle and almost toppled over a cliff’s edge. His heart hammered in his throat his ears filled with a growing roar, washing away even the calls of his pursuers. The path seemed to tilt first one way, then the other. The sudden exertion of running from his captors heightened the drug’s effect.Īs he ran, the limbs of the jungle seemed to reach for him, trying to trap him. Before his scheduled execution at dawn, he had suffered a ritualistic bloodletting and been forced to consume a draught of a bitter elixir-chicha, a fermented drink that had quickly made the ground under his feet wobble. The sway in his gait was not all due to the altitude. Shoving off the tree, Francisco set off once again down the trail, stumbling and weaving. High up in the mountainous Andes, the air failed to fill his lungs adequately, forcing him to rest frequently, but he could not let shortness of breath stop him. Francisco grabbed the bole of a jungle sapling, struggling not to fall. When he straightened too quickly, his vision darkened for a heartbeat. He kissed the torn edge of his robe and let it drop from his fingers. The young friar had only one hope left-a chance at salvation-not for himself, but for the world. Even the screeching cries of the disturbed monkeys from the jungle canopy overhead could not mask the rising clamor of his captors.

Already the call of the Incan hunters grew louder, echoing along the mountain pass behind him. Once his legs were free, Francisco listened to the sounds of pursuit. He grabbed the hem of his garment and ripped it to his thighs. But that did not mean he couldn’t alter them to suit his situation better. They had been blessed by Pope Clement when Francisco had first been ordained, and he would not part with them. Though the heavy robes ill suited his flight through the dense, cloud-draped jungle of the upper Andes, the young friar still refused to shed his raiment. The tribal shaman had warned the others not to touch these talismans from his “foreign” god, afraid of insulting this stranger’s deity. His Incan captors had stripped him of all possessions, except for his robe and cross. He still wore his Dominican robe, black wool and silk, but it was stained and torn. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Panting, he crouched along the thin path and caught his breath.

Crashing through the misty jungle, Francisco de Almagro had long given up all prayer of ever outrunning the hunters who dogged his trail.

Excavation rollins