The Inka Empire: A Multidisciplinary Approach 0292760795, 9780292760790

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The Inka Empire

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EDITED BY IZUMI SHIMADA

The Inka Empire A Multidisciplinary Approach

University of Texas Press Austin

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Dedicated to our colleagues and friends, the late Catherine J. Julien and the late Craig Morris

Copyright © 2015 by the University of Texas Press All rights reserved Printed in China First edition, 2015 Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to: Permissions University of Texas Press P.O. Box 7819 Austin, TX 78713-7819 http://utpress.utexas.edu/index.php/rp-form ∞ The paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (R1997) (Permanence of Paper). LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

The Inka empire : a multidisciplinary approach / edited by Izumi Shimada. — 1st ed. pages   cm. — (The William and Bettye Nowlin series in art, history, and culture of the Western hemisphere) ISBN 978-0-292-76079-0 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Incas—History. 2. Incas—Social life and customs. I. Shimada, Izumi. F3429.I64 2015 985'.01—dc23 2014017672 doi:10.7560/760790

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Contents



List of Abbreviations  vii

Chapter 1. Introduction  1 IZUMI SHIMADA



Part I. Written Sources, Origins, and Formations

Chapter 2. Inkas through Texts: The Primary Sources  23 FRANK SALOMON

Chapter 3. The Languages of the Inkas  39 RODOLFO CERRÓN-PALOMINO

Chapter 4. Tracing the Origin of Inka People through Ancient DNA Analysis  55 KEN-ICHI SHINODA

Chapter 5. Separating the Wheat from the Chaff: Inka Myths, Inka Legends, and the Archaeological Evidence for State Development  67 BRIAN S. BAUER AND DOUGLAS K. SMIT



Part II. Imperial Infrastructures and Administrative Strategies

Chapter 6. Inka Imperial Intentions and Archaeological Realities in the Peruvian Highlands  83 R. ALAN COVEY

Chapter 7. Funding the Inka Empire  97 TERENCE N. D’ALTROY



Part III. Inka Culture at the Center

Chapter 8. Inka Cosmology in Moray: Astronomy, Agriculture, and Pilgrimage  121 JOHN C. EARLS AND GABRIELA CERVANTES

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vi  THE INKA EMPIRE

Chapter 9. The State of Strings: Khipu Administration in the Inka Empire  149 GARY URTON

Chapter 10. Inka Art  165 THOMAS B. F. CUMMINS

Chapter 11. Inka Textile Traditions and Their Colonial Counterparts  197 ELENA PHIPPS

Chapter 12. The Inka Built Environment  215 STELLA NAIR AND JEAN-PIERRE PROTZEN

Chapter 13. Considering Inka Royal Estates: Architecture, Economy, History  233 SUSAN A. NILES

Chapter 14. Inka Conceptions of Life, Death, and Ancestor Worship  247 PETER KAULICKE

Part IV. Imperial Administration in the Provinces Chapter 15. Collasuyu of the Inka State  265 MARTTI PÄRSSINEN

Chapter 16. Reading the Material Record of Inka Rule: Style, Polity, and Empire on the North Coast of Peru  287 FRANCES M. HAYASHIDA AND NATALIA GUZMÁN

Chapter 17. Over the Mountains, Down into the Ceja de Selva: Inka Strategies and Impacts in the Chachapoyas Region  307 INGE SCHJELLERUP

Chapter 18. At the End of Empire: Imperial Advances on the Northern Frontier  325 TAMARA L. BRAY

Part V. Impacts of the Spanish Conquest Chapter 19. Three Faces of the Inka: Changing Conceptions and Representations of the Inka during the Colonial Period  347 TETSUYA AMINO

Authors’ Biographies  363 Index  367

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Abbreviations

BAE CERA CERES CIAT CIMA CISEPA CONCYTEC FONSAL ICA IEP IFEA ILCA LIP ONERN PUCE PUCP SAR UNAM UNMSM

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Biblioteca de Autores Españoles Centro de Estudios Regionales Andinos Centro de Estudios de la Realidad Económica y Social Centro Internacional de Agricultura Tropical Centro de Conservación, Investigación y Manejo de Áreas Naturales Centro de Investigaciones Sociológicas, Económicas, Políticas y Antropológicas Consejo Nacional de Ciencia, Tecnología e Innovación Tecnológica Fondo de Salvamento del Patrimonio Cultural Instituto Colombiano Agropecuario Instituto de Estudios Peruanos Instituto Francés de Estudios Andinos Instituto de Lengua y Cultura Aymara Late Intermediate Period Oficina Nacional de Evaluación de Recursos Naturales Pontificia Universidad Católica del Ecuador, Quito Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Lima School of Advanced Research Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos

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The Inka Empire

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CHAPTER 1

Introduction Izumi Shimada

The Inkas, the Inka Empire . . . Just the names ignite our twenty-first-century imagination and evoke images of fine textiles with orderly geometric designs, roads that defy rugged terrains, and massive yet elegantly executed masonry architecture and andenes (agricultural terraces) set against majestic and seemingly boundless Andean landscapes. All were created within the largest political system ever to develop in the New World, a system headed, paradoxically, by a single, small minority group without wheeled vehicles, markets, or writing system. The word “Inka” also conjures up the historical events of a.d. 1533, in which—within a year of their landing in Tumbes on the northernmost coast of Peru—a surprisingly small number of Spaniards, led by Francisco Pizarro and together with their native allies, overthrew and took possession of this empire. But what do we really know about the Inkas and Tawantinsuyu, the “realm of four parts,” their Quechua name for this vast empire? Popular and scholarly interest in the Inkas and the Inka Empire—including what motivated the Spanish conquest—continues to this day, largely unabated even after nearly five centuries. The aforementioned “paradox” seems to account for this widespread and persistent interest, but, at the same time, it is perceived as a paradox in part because we try to understand it through our own ethnocentric perspective, rather than striving to comprehend it on its own terms. The vast quantity and diverse forms of written records left by Spanish and other European writers are simultaneously a blessing and a curse. They afford details and insights but can be misleading because of the ignorance, misconceptions, and/or inherent ethnocentric biases of the observer, writer, translator, and/or informant. The rigorous, empirical archaeological fieldwork that began in the late nineteenth century serves to

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complement and/or verify historical information and visions. At the same time, it carries its own set of limitations and weaknesses, including sampling biases and the difficulties accompanying any attempt to illuminate beliefs, identity, and agency via material remains. Since the late 1960s, the integration of archaeology and ethnohistory has become a common design feature of Inka studies (Murra 1962; Murra and Morris 1976). This includes efforts to balance our knowledge of Inka elite idealized/heartland visions of their empire with what was actually practiced in provinces, studies that have been essential to our understanding of the unity and diversity that coexisted in the empire. The preceding paradoxes, difficulties, and limitations constitute intellectual challenges that have emboldened investigators the world over. In fact, over the past several decades, the Inkas and their empire have received a lion’s share of archaeological attention. Their prominence and popularity are also understandable, given the vast physical extent of the empire, the diverse sources of information available, the good state of preservation of its material culture, and its symbolic importance to modern Andean nations (Burger 1989; D’Altroy 1997; Schaedel and Shimada 1982; Shimada and Vega-Centeno 2011). Celebrations of the centennial of the rediscovery of Machu Picchu by Hiram Bingham as well as the site’s election as one of the “new” Seven Wonders of the World have fanned interest in Machu Picchu and the Inka Empire. Contemporary Inka studies are dynamic in character, involving scholars from some twenty countries throughout the world, and multidisciplinary in composition, encompassing archaeology, art and architectural history, ethnohistory, linguistics, and physical anthropology, among others. They have spawned journals dedicated exclusively to the subject matter at hand:

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Tawantinsuyu: An International Journal of Inka Studies, which first appeared in 1995 and is published by Australian National University in Canberra, and, in 2011, Inka llaqta (“Inka city” in Quechua), Revista de investigaciones arqueológicas y etnohistóricas inka, published by the National University of San Marcos, Lima. A further indication of this thriving status is the publication of a three-volume set resulting from a 2002 international conference on “Identidad y transformación en el Tahuantinsuyu en los Andes coloniales: Perspectivas arqueológicas y etnohistóricas” (Identity and Transformation in Tahuantinsuyu [aka Tawantinsuyu] in the Colonial Andes) (Kaulicke, Urton, and Farrington 2008a, b, c). Many of the chapters constituting the three-volume compilation of “documentary sources for Andean studies” (Pillsbury 2008) concern the Inkas and their empire as well as their post–Spanish conquest transformation. In fact, in the last decade, we have seen a nearly uninterrupted stream of innovative research and new publications on aspects of the Inkas and their empire. It is evident, then, that a great deal of new information has accumulated over the last few decades with the diversification of research issues and interests. The interpretive status quo has come to be challenged and tested, particularly with the increasing number of “provincial studies” and the integration of new analytical methods and interpretive perspectives from disciplines other than the traditional mainstays, archaeology and ethnohistory. Aims of the Book The basic conceptual scheme of this book emerged during the late 1970s, when I came to realize that a holistic understanding of complex systems such as the Inka Empire would require a multidisciplinary approach that offered synergistic insights and knowledge as well as the ability to verify and refine varied lines of evidence. The productive and stimulating quality of this approach is apparent in the book that resulted from the WennerGren Foundation international conference on Andean civilization and ecology that I co-organized (Masuda, Shimada, and Morris 1985; Shimada 1985). While there are today a number of fine syntheses on the Inka Empire (e.g., D’Altroy 2003; Rostworowski 1999), indepth, multidisciplinary publications on this subject have been absent. The current volume resulted from the recognition of this major lacuna and the plentiful and

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important new research on the Inka Empire that has been conducted over the past decade or so by scholars from diverse countries and disciplines. Four major aims guided the creation of this book. The first objective is to offer the latest data and understanding of the political, demographic, and linguistic evolution of the Inkas. Toward this end, the book covers much of the full extent of the empire, from the northernmost region of the Ecuador–Colombia border to northwest Argentina. The predominant emphasis, however, is on Chinchaysuyu and Collasuyu, economically and politically the most important sectors of the empire (figs. 1.1, 1.2). Although there has been a trend in recent decades to separate provincial/periphery and heartland/core (Cuzco and its immediate surroundings) areas (e.g., D’Altroy 1992; Dillehay and Netherly 1988; Malpass 1993; Malpass and Alconini 2010; Stanish 2001), this book attempts to produce a holistic and integrated vision of the empire. Although the book predominantly focuses on the expansive phase of the empire (ca. a.d. 1400–1532), chapters also cover the still poorly known era during the Late Intermediate Period when the Inkas were just one of various contemporaneous regional polities in and around the Cuzco basin (table 1.1). Looking at this wide expanse of time is critical for an understanding of Inka political evolution. At the other end of the timeline, the book examines the short but unsettling period at the end of the empire just before and after the arrival of the Spaniards, as well as the long-term transformation of Inka identity and symbolism during the subsequent Colonial period (up to ca. a.d. 1750). The second principal aim of the book is to present an updated vision of the unity and diversity, as well as the essence, of the material, organizational, and symbolic-­ ideological features of the Inka Empire. To achieve this objective, key issues and topics on the Inkas and their empire were identified, followed by the selection of international scholars whose research trajectories and expertise closely matched them. Each author thus selected was asked to write a critical synthesis of a specific topic and related issues, so that resultant chapters are well focused and complementary. The third principal aim of this book is to demonstrate the importance of multidisciplinary approaches and perspectives. Although Inka studies have been traditionally dominated by archaeology and ethnohistory, we have seen an important broadening of our database and analytical perspective in recent years. As Killick warns, “the lone archaeologist is now an endangered species. As archae-

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Figure 1.1. Map showing the maximum extent of the Inka Empire and its environmental settings, as well as key archaeological sites mentioned in the text. (Prepared by Kayeleigh Sharp, based on fig. 15.2 by Martti Pärssinen)

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4  IZUMI SHIMADA

ology has grown, the knowledge required to do cuttingedge archaeological research has expanded far beyond the capabilities of any single individual” (2008:58). Although Killick is here discussing the role of archaeometry, or archaeological science, our book collectively illustrates the value of bringing to bear multiple analytical perspectives and independent lines of evidence on a subject as multifaceted and varied as the Inka and their empire. The diverse academic backgrounds represented by the contributors enrich and deepen the interpretive and analytical dimensions of the book. The fourth and final aim is to acquaint readers with important scholarship in Inka studies carried out by scholars in diverse parts of the world whose publications are often not in English and/or are not widely distributed outside of their countries. This aim simply reflects the cosmopolitan composition of students of Inka studies since its nascent stage in the nineteenth century (Shimada and Vega-Centeno 2011; Willey and Sabloff 1993). Contributing authors for this book come from Australia, Denmark, Finland, Germany, Japan, Peru, and the USA. Given the diversity of research approaches and broader intellectual perspectives that coexist among the cosmopolitan community of Inka specialists, disagree-

ment and lively debate are to be expected, as we find in this volume (see below); the book neither promotes nor seeks a consensus on each of the diverse topics and issues that it encompasses. Each contributor has been urged to be both frank and specific about issues and questions for which divergent opinions and uncertainties persist. It is inherently a difficult task to produce a comprehensive and updated synthesis of the Inkas and their empire, in part because of the rapidly evolving character of their studies. Each chapter thus ends with a discussion that illuminates remaining controversial, unresolved issues, questions, and tasks that can better guide future research. In this book, “Inka” and “Inkas” refer to both the living and the deceased Inka ruler or king (often referred to as “Sapa Inka,” the unquestioned supreme ruler) and the Inka elites or nobility (embracing both the “Inkas by Blood” [hereditary status] and the “Inkas by Privilege” [acquired status]), respectively. The term “empire” as used in the book refers to the extensive state-level political system of a society that, by force or diplomacy, gains control over a number of societies of varied sizes and natures (including other states) that culturally and ethnically differ from the ruling society. The subju-

Figure 1.2. Isometric view of the Urubamba valley (the “Sacred Valley of the Inkas”) and the location of key Inka sites mentioned in the book. (Prepared by Kayeleigh Sharp) (1) Machu Picchu; (2) Patallacta; (3) Ollantaytambo; (4) Moray; (5) Maras; (6) Urubamba; (7) Yucay; (8) Calca; (9) Chinchero; (10) Pisac; (11) Cuzco; (12) Mount Veronica (elev. 5,682 m); (13) Mount Salcantay (elev. 6,264 m)

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INTRODUCTION  5

Table 1.1. Estimated Chronology of Late Inka Rulers and Associated Territorial Expansions Year (c.e.)

1500

Name of the Reigning Inka Ruler

Estimated Span of Reign

Atahualpa

1532–1533

Huascar

ca. 1525/27–1532

Huayna Capac

ca. 1493–1525/27

Conquest of much of Ecuador

Tupac Inka Yupanqui

ca. 1471–1493

Conquest of much of Antisuyu and Collasuyu

Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui

ca. 1437–1471

Conquest of much of Chinchaysuyu, including the Chimú Empire

1400

Major Territorial Expansions

Expansion out of the Cuzco region

Based on Rowe (1946) and Pärssinen (chapter 15 in this volume).

gated societies serve the ruling system (see Alcock et al. 2001; D’Altroy 1992; Sinopoli 1994; and Trigger 2003 for further discussions). The Inka state conquered the Chimú Empire, which dominated the northern half of the Peruvian coast and other notable polities during its approximately 130-year-long history (beginning ca. a.d. 1400) of territorial expansion. At its height, the empire encompassed ca. 2 million square kilometers in area and subjugated at least eighty-six ethnic groups (Rowe 1946:186–192). The authors of this book all seem to treat the post–a.d. 1400 expansive Inka political system as having constituted an empire; opinions vary as to the degree to which the Inka Empire consciously strived to build a “nation-state” (see Rowe 1982). Organization and Content of the Book The book is thematic and issue-oriented in nature, organized to give the reader an organic sense of the empire as it rapidly expanded and transformed. Thus the book begins with a critical assessment of written sources of information (chapter 2), followed by chapters on Inka linguistic, genetic, and sociopolitical origins and formations (chapters 3–5). In these chapters the reader encounters stimulating data and views derived from the multidisciplinary approach of the book as well as associated debates. These are followed by chapters focused on the establishment, implementation, and transformation of imperial infrastructures and administrative strategies (chapters 6, 7). The latter chapter illuminates the factors and processes responsible for the dynamic relationship between unity and diversity within the empire. Against this broad-stroke background, the book

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goes on to address specific themes and issues that characterized the Inka culture largely in its heartland in and around Cuzco (see fig. 1.2; chapters 8–14): agricultural technology and its functional and symbolic dimensions; administrative accounting and control; architecture and related landscape modifications; royalty and their palaces; artistic expression in varied media and its varied roles and meanings; and conceptions of the Sapa Inka and, more broadly, of life, death, and ancestor veneration. These chapters together illustrate the orderly and unified world that the Inkas strived to create as well as the power, prestige, and permanence they attempted to impress on their subjects through material presence, lordly largesse, and visual symbolism. The next section of the book (chapters 15–18) examines in depth the processes of Inka conquest and the imperial strategies employed in subsequent integration and administration, as well as local responses to them, in four divergent geographical and sociopolitical settings. These provincial studies constitute effective counterpoints to the Inka vision of their empire presented in the preceding section. Chapter 18, which focuses on the process of conquering and integrating the northernmost area of the empire, serves as a bridge between the chaotic times shortly before and after the arrival of the Spaniards and their subsequent conquest of the Inka Empire. These chapters offer visions of regional administration and social reality that challenge current models, which were derived from imprecise or tenuous historical sources for the chronology and nature of Inka conquest and control. While the rapid and far-reaching colonial transformations of what was once the Inka Empire have been the subject of many studies, the final chapter (19)

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focuses on the fate of the Inka elites as well as what the name “Inka” came to symbolize to different segments of colonial society. Major Issues and Interpretive Convergence and Divergence Each chapter focuses on specific theme(s) and/or unresolved issues. At the same time, there are various broader issues that extend throughout multiple chapters. Below, I highlight these issues and discuss major interpretive divergences and convergences among the constituent chapters, to give the reader a good grasp of the current state of Inka studies. Reliability and Value of Information Sources and the Archaeology–Ethnohistory Relationship Frank Salomon (chapter 2), a leading Andean ethnohistorian (emeritus) at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, tackles the persistent debate regarding the reliability of written and other information sources available to students of the Inkas and their empire. Inka-period sources (e.g., khipus, an Andean recording device based on knots tied on strings) do not conform to our familiar notions of writing and history, while sources predominantly created by Spaniards (e.g., chronicles, census data, and ecclesiastical and legal documents) were written for purposes other than cultural reconstruction. Salomon explains how in recent decades many of these diverse sources have been systematically analyzed or reassessed and their inherent biases illuminated so as to be made more useful for our study today. Salomon reminds us of the critical importance of the earliest documents that describe native participants’ recollection of how things stood on the eve of the Spanish conquest in light of the speed and complexity of the cultural transformation brought about by external (e.g., colonial policies and epidemics) and internal (e.g., realignment of political allegiances and return of populations relocated by the Inkas) forces. It is understandable, in this sense, why the writings of Juan de Betanzos (1519–1576) are widely considered reliable and are cited by many authors in this book. He had a good command of Quechua; married into the Inka royal family of Atahualpa, the last Inka ruler; and was privy to the exclusive royal customs and visions of

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immediately pre–Spanish conquest times (see chapter 14, by Kaulicke). Archaeology and ethnohistory stand to mutually benefit from each other. Gains from their collaboration rely to a large measure on the quality of the information each has to offer and the role each plays. Archaeologists—constrained by data and physical remains that are not precisely dated and/or whose behavioral, social, and/or ideological significance is not clear—tend to be swayed by ethnohistorical information that is often affirmative and detailed, leading one to wonder sometimes if ethnohistory is the dog that wags the tail. Brian Bauer and Douglas Smit (chapter 5), two archaeologists at the University of Illinois at Chicago who are working to clarify the early stage of Inka sociopolitical development through regional settlement surveys, cast strong doubt on the historicity of various wellknown accounts of early Inka achievements, including the conquest of the Chancas. Alan Covey (chapter 6), an archaeologist at the University of Texas at Austin who has worked in the Cuzco area and the central highlands of Peru, echoes the same sentiments, quite weary of visions heavily based on later historical documents. Together, they expose the notable gulf between ethnohistoric models and archaeological reality and reject cultural reconstructions (particularly those related to the origins of the Inkas; cf. chapters 3, 4, and 5) that they feel heavily and uncritically rely on historical writings, including myths and legends. Peter Kaulicke (chapter 14), a renowned German archaeologist at the Catholic University of Peru (PUCP) in Lima, on the other hand, extensively utilizes Juan de Betanzos’s accounts of Inka conceptions of life, death, and ancestor worship as a point of departure to assess the archaeological remains at the site of Pisac, an Inka royal estate in the Urubamba valley northeast of Cuzco (fig. 1.2: no. 10). Tamara Bray (chapter 18), an American archaeologist at Wright State University known for her long-standing research concerning the northern Andes and Inka imperialism, relies heavily on perceptive ethnographic observations made by Pedro Cieza de León, an early Spanish writer who traveled throughout what was once the Inka Empire. At the same time, she tests and augments his and other ethnohistorical information through archaeological surveys and excavations. In general, the authors in the book make a careful selection of written sources and use them critically as one source of information that guides archaeological study.

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INTRODUCTION  7

Martti Pärssinen (chapter 15), a Finnish ethnologist at the University of Helsinki, ��������������������� demonstrates the concordance and discordance between archaeological and ethnohistorical information in his attempts to define the conquest, administration, and physical extent of Collasuyu, which encompassed much of the southern part of Tawantinsuyu. Although there is a good degree of agreement between these two bodies of evidence in regard to Inka expansion reaching into the Mato Grosso area, near the Brazil–Bolivia border, their testimonies diverge in regard to the chronology of the Inka conquest of Collasuyu. Not surprisingly, information in local documents seems to accord better with the material evidence than does what is found in more general documents that had broader spatial, temporal, and topical coverage. Reminding us of a caution issued by Julien (1993:228), Pärssinen highlights the distinctive natures of historical and archaeological data: “Historically recorded social, religious, economic, or political changes do not immediately affect all material culture that can be detected archaeologically, and vice versa: a rapid change in material culture does not necessarily imply a simultaneous reorganization of social, religious, economic or political life.” His observation partially explains the challenges of archaeological verification of historically mentioned Inka conquests. As Murra (1986) pointed out, an Inka conquest may have in reality involved repeated conquests or none, as threats of attack by a vastly larger Inka army may have been enough to subjugate a given polity. Given the variability in the nature and quality of textual and other information sources, research questions and aims, and the oft-unstated confidence or lack of confidence in a researcher’s own data, it is difficult to name any one approach to Inka studies or use of textual sources as being superior. At the same time, as Pärssinen urges, this volume as a whole constitutes my advocacy of a broadly conceived multidisciplinary approach to Inka studies (see also D’Altroy et al. 2002; Schjellerup et al. 2009) in which each line of evidence, including the ethnohistorical, is examined independently and cross-checked against other lines of evidence. Although agreement among multiple lines of evidence does not automatically correlate with correctness, it does argue for their overall plausibility. The merging of archaeological and ethnohistorical data, as some authors in this book have undertaken, offers synergistic insights but also may misguide one’s research and hinder recognition of the biases, weaknesses, and strengths of each.

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Covey (chapter 6) aptly notes, “As the archaeological database becomes more comprehensive and representative, it will be possible to move beyond the testing of ethnohistorical assertions to address aspects of Inka imperialism that were not recorded by early writers” (emphasis added). The archaeology–history relationship will undoubtedly continue to be debated, as both deal with the too-often-unverifiable past. Minimally, each researcher needs to take into account and critically assess the weaknesses and strengths of both disciplines. Inka Origins The preceding consideration explains the multidisciplinary character of this book. Although not by design, the benefit of this approach is effectively revealed by what appears to be the good concordance regarding the geographical “origins” of the Inkas among three authors who employed three divergent and independent approaches, although, as we said above, concordance does not imply correctness. One approach utilizes linguistics. Rodolfo CerrónPalomino, a leading Peruvian linguist, tackles the question of the so-called secret language or original tongue of the Inkas (chapter 3) and presents a provocative but plausible case of “lexical stratification,” three-phase language acquisition and replacement in the order of Puquina–Aymara–Quechua. Traditionally the language of the Inkas was considered to have been Quechua only or with Aymara. Building upon advances made in the last few decades in onomastics, or the study of the origins and forms of proper names, particularly in regard to Inka institutional vocabulary and in Andean toponymy in general, Cerrón-Palomino reformulates this conventional vision. In essence, he argues that prior to the use of the Aymara and Quechua languages, the ancestors of the Inkas, who migrated from the Lake Titicaca region, had Puquina (aka Pukina) as their original tongue; this corresponds to the “secret language” of which colonial documents speak. In his reconstruction, Quechua becomes the administrative language of the empire from the tenth Inka king, Tupac Inka Yupanqui (ca. 1471–1493), onward. In his chapter he challenges not only the conventional idea of the Inka language, but also the entrenched, two-pronged (archaeology/ethnohistory) approach to studies of the Andean past, arguing that research should be broadened to include historical linguistics. He considers the overreliance on archaeology and ethnohis-

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tory to be directly responsible for the persistence of incorrect preconceptions regarding Andean languages and peoples. Steps toward the integration of linguistics are being taken, for example, with the convening of major international conferences, such as the “Simposio sobre lenguas y sociedades en el antiguo Perú: Hacia un enfoque interdisciplinario” (Symposium on Languages and Societies in Ancient Peru: Toward an Interdisciplinary Approach) held in 2009 at the Catholic University of Peru, and the “Archeology and Historical Linguistics of South American Indian Languages” conference held at the University of Brasilia in October 2011. Cerrón-Palomino’s call for empirical testing of his lexical stratification hypothesis is answered (not by design) by two other contributors. One is Ken-ichi Shinoda (chapter 4), a leading Japanese physical anthropologist specializing in analysis of mitochondrial DNA (mtDNA) extracted from the teeth of excavated ancient human burials. This approach—which takes advantage of mtDNA’s unaltered inheritance patterns and their relatively high frequency of mutation—allows characterization of populations as well as their interrelationships and movements over time and space. Although the small number and precise cultural affiliations of samples remain a problem, over the past two decades Shinoda has analyzed samples from diverse areas in Peru and from varying time periods, including, most recently, those from “Inka” (e.g., residents at Machu Picchu and Patallacta) and pre-Inka (Formative) sites in and around Cuzco and Puno. It is this broad panPeruvian and diachronic data that leads him to tentatively conclude that the sampled individuals from Inka sites around Cuzco are genetically closest to the modern Aymara and other inhabitants of the altiplano (high plateau) around the Titicaca basin. Furthermore, these individuals clearly differ from those of the formative site of Wata near Cuzco and those of the Wari sites in the central and southern highlands of Peru (e.g., Cerro Bául); in other words, the available mtDNA data suggest a scenario in which an ancestral Inka population migrated out of the circum–Lake Titicaca area into the Cuzco region sometime after the Formative era. Shinoda raises the provocative possibility that two divergent Inka origin myths (i.e., ancestral Inkas emerging out of the sacred cave of Pacaritambo south of Cuzco versus from two islands in Lake Titicaca) reflect two sequential stages of Inka population movements, an initial movement (distant past) out of the Titicaca region toward the Cuzco area, and a more recent and local

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movement that led to their establishment within the Cuzco basin. The other contributor who discusses Inka origins is Pärssinen. Working from a large corpus of data, including numerous radiocarbon dates, amassed over the past few decades by himself and his Finnish colleagues through their multidisciplinary and broadly regional studies (south shore of Lake Titicaca and elsewhere in Bolivia), Pärssinen challenges conventional visions of the geographical limits and chronology of Inka expansion into Collasuyu, the southern half of the empire. As with the chapters by Bauer and Smit and by Covey, his regional approach—focused on the south shore of Lake Titicaca—effectively illuminates the historical contexts of the Inka presence and the importance of cultural developments during the Late Intermediate period (roughly a.d. 1000–1400). He concludes, “This evidence demonstrates that so-called Inka ceramics may have been in full use in Caquiaviri [an archaeological site on the south shore of Lake Titicaca] nearly one hundred years before the historically described conquest of the fifteenth century. Furthermore, this earlier dating is in accordance with the results obtained from northern Chile.” In fact, he challenges the notion that the development of Inka ceramic style was a purely internal process within the Cuzco area, asserting that the same type of evolution—from the so-called Killke style (i.e., early Inka/pre-Imperial Cuzco Inka style; Bauer 1992, 1999; Bauer and Covey 2002; Covey 2003; McEwan 2005, 2008) starting around a.d. 1000 to the Imperial CuzcoInka ceramic style starting around a.d. 1400—was also taking place on the south shore of Lake Titicaca. As a part of his strong case for a wholesale reconsideration of the Inka chronology in Collasuyu, Pärssinen presents the recent ������������������������������������������� discovery of late Tiwanaku (aka Tiahuanaco) ceramic portrait vessels (ca. a.d. 1000) on the island of Pariti in southern Lake Titicaca. Surprisingly, one portrait shows a helmet nearly identical to those worn by the Inka rulers in Guaman Poma’s ([1615] 1980) and Martín de Murúa’s ([1616] 1962–1964) drawings. More generally, headdresses on Pariti portraits show “striking” similarities to those used in the late Tiwanaku period and by the post-Tiwanaku inhabitants known as Pukina (Puquina) Collas. Pärssinen thus concludes that “the Pariti finds appear to be more or less direct antecedents for the aforementioned Inka headdresses in the Lake Titicaca region—four hundred years before the historically known Inka conquests took place.”

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INTRODUCTION  9

Although the above similarities may represent pure coincidence or inspirational sources of later iconic symbols of the Inka royalty, these lines of evidence, taken together with the linguistic and genetic data discussed earlier, raise the distinct possibility of an ancestral Inka group originating on the south shore of Lake Titicaca. The reader is urged to carefully evaluate these lines of evidence and arguments in light of the strong criticism presented by Bauer and Smit (chapter 5) regarding the historicity of Inka origin myths, which they feel some of these authors have implicitly assumed. The preceding discussions both point to an exciting finding regarding the Inka’s possible geographical origins that awaits further examination and, at the same time, highlight the inadequacies of current Inka chronology. As is the widespread practice today, nearly all authors of the book treat only the last five Inka kings (starting with Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui [ca. 1437– 1471]; see table 1.1) as historical kings whose reigns were associated with the spread of imperial Inka-style objects and architecture. It is the period prior to ca. a.d. 1400 that remains to be better elucidated. In fact, chapters 5, 6, and 15, by Bauer and Smit, Covey, and Pärssinen, respectively, show the complexity of sociopolitical developments in and around the Cuzco region, the inadequacy (if not the misleading quality) of historical documents, and the need for additional regional surveys, localized stratified excavations, and associated radiocarbon dating. Organization and Operation of the Inka Empire The Inka Empire had a complex mosaic character, reflecting its natural and sociocultural landscapes. The Andes’ unparalleled ecological diversity results from a highly compressed physiography that reaches over six thousand meters in elevation, active tectonic processes, tropical–semitropical latitude, the cold Humboldt (aka Peruvian) Current, and the westerly trade winds. The variegated sociocultural landscape, on the other hand, arose largely from the presence of numerous ethnic groups with divergent practices and traditions, natural and human resources, and levels, scales, and forms of sociopolitical organization. The Inkas, as a minority ethnic group, faced an enormous task in administering their rapidly expanding empire, and many chapters in this book directly or indirectly answer the persistent question of how they

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accomplished this. In the process, these chapters illuminate the material, organizational, and symbolic features that made the Inka culture and empire distinct from pre- and non-Inkas, going beyond the oft-heard characterization of their accomplishments as mere pre- and non-Inka statecrafts writ large. Building their key imperial institutions and strategies upon pre- and non-Inka prototypes facilitated their implementation, as they could count on widely shared contextual knowledge. At the same time, integrating them at a much greater organizational and spatial scale into something resembling a functioning whole was an unprecedented achievement. Although any open system builds from what it has, a major increase in the scale and complexity of any one component (e.g., the pre-Inka economic institution of “verticality” and the associated small-scale, shortterm, rotational population relocation—see below) inevitably brings about unbalanced, perhaps unprecedented and unanticipated, transformations of the whole system. Four chapters (6–9) discuss various issues related to the organization and operation of the Inka Empire. It should be noted that these chapters do not constitute an attempt to place the Inkas on a pedestal as great innovators or synthesizers of the millennia-old Andean civilization; rather, these are independent and critical assessments of the imperial policies, strategies, and institutions developed to exploit material and human resources and generally administer the empire. Covey (chapter 6) tackles the persistent debate surrounding the intensity of Inka provincial administration, offering critiques of earlier conceptions as well as a new model that takes advantage of the strengths of available archaeological databases. As with Bauer and Smit (chapter 5), he takes a long-term perspective that spans important Late Intermediate Period developments prior to the arrival of the Inka to better understand the real impacts and better characterize the nature of local–Inka interaction; essentially the same approach is adopted by the authors of chapters 15–18. Today, much of the variability in Inka provincial administration is described in terms of a sliding scale between direct policy involving heavy material/manpower investment and indirect policy that relied on the loyalty and efficiency of the existing leadership (e.g., D’Altroy 1992; D’Altroy and Earle 1985). At the same time, as Covey justifiably notes, Inka imperialism is commonly treated as geographically continuous across the highlands. He argues that we have a long way to go in documenting “when, where, and how

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the Inka Empire exercised power over local populations, and explain[ing] the circumstances where it did not.” Chapters 15–18, in fact, offer just such details, gained through diachronic and regional studies in four divergent provinces of the empire. In the future we are likely to recognize greater variability in Inka provincial administration as we come to terms with the full organizational, material, and ideological consequences of the Inka imperial system, which not only expanded rapidly over highly diverse physical and cultural landscapes but also was experiencing unprecedented internal changes (e.g., increasing personal properties and tribute-exempt personnel). In discussing the factors underlying the patchy character of Inka provincial administration, Covey points to the critical role played by Inka roads (qhapaq ñan in Quechua), which were built during military campaigns and covered over twenty-five thousand kilometers, connecting nearly all the areas of their vast empire (Hyslop 1984, 1990). Two major parallel roads on the coast and in the highlands were interconnected by dozens of lateral roads, and associated administrative centers, storerooms, and other imperial facilities provided the basis for establishing the imperial infrastructure. Covey recommends additional fieldwork in areas away from the Inka roads, to gauge the “impact of imperial rule on the daily life of people who continued to live far from administrative centers, and who appear to have absorbed little in the way of Inka material culture.” From the vantage of the various areas of the empire where he has conducted archaeological research, Terence D’Altroy (chapter 7), a leading Inka archaeologist working at Columbia University, presents a comprehensive characterization of the economic institutions and strategies that supported the rapidly expanding empire. He discusses Inka solutions to funding their empire, which they accomplished in two phases. Given the ecological and sociocultural diversity noted earlier, the approach that could be most readily and broadly applied involves an elaboration of pre-Inka institutions and principles that were already widely known, most important of which was periodic labor service (known as mit’a), which arose from the principle of reciprocity and was owed to communal leaders and shrines/deities. All historical sources agree that conscripted labor service was the foundation of the Inka economy. The second phase is characterized by the emergence of more specialized services, involving the mobilization

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of dedicated personnel who possessed or trained for specific skills and expertise, the institution known as mitimaq (relocated individuals are known as mitimaes). D’Altroy discusses the mitimaq at length, demonstrating that it is critical to an understanding of the Inka Empire. As noted earlier, this institution was an elaboration of the pre-Inka economic practice of “verticality,” which entailed sending representatives of one’s community to different ecological/altitudinal zones for periods of time to produce and/or extract resources that were not locally available (Murra 1975). The Inka Empire transformed this widespread preInka vertical-control practice—modifying its scale (still not well defined; see below), duration (i.e., permanent relocation), function, and participant composition—to the point that it became one of the key institutions for the “Inkanization” of the empire. The imperial mitimaq served agro-pastoral, craft, and extractive (essentially mining) functions. Unlike the pre-Inka prototype, however, it served to spread the Inka vision of an orderly, productive lifestyle as well as the use of Quechua as the lingua franca of the empire. Groups that had proven loyal to the Inkas were planted among rebellious groups to serve as a policing or peacekeeping force (see chapters 17 and 18, by Schjellerup and Bray). The converse also occurred. One important long-term consequence of the imperial mitimaq was the large-scale shift in the nature of conscription, from periodic, rotational corvée to permanent retainership. In fact, Susan Niles, archaeologist at Lafayette College, discusses how mitimaes at royal estates close to Cuzco had their identity and status further diminished, as they were transformed into yanacunas, permanent personal retainers (chapter 13). The imperial mitimaq also created new physical and socialethnic landscapes in affected areas. The true magnitude of the mitimaq is difficult to ascertain. Although historical documents speak of thousands of inhabitants from a single valley being relocated, and the scale was generally on rise toward the end of the empire, the magnitude of the practice in reality is likely to have been quite varied. We have to be careful not to overgeneralize the impressive scale of the mitimaq cited in a few documents. In fact, Niles raises the possibility that the grand projects that Huayna Capac (the eleventh Inka, ca. a.d. 1493– 1525/27; see table 1.1) ordered were motivated by the internecine dispute that he faced upon succession. Like many authors in the book, D’Altroy cautions

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INTRODUCTION  11

that a number of the economically motivated imperial projects and their material products also had symbolic and ideological significance. He concludes his chapter with a lucid comparative discussion of characterizations of the Inka economy, including the Marxian vision and the oft-heard claim of the uniqueness of the “Andean way” or the concept of Andean uniformitarianism (aka lo andino; see the critique by Shimada [2013:347–348]). As D’Altroy and others in the book emphasize, many aspects of the Inka Empire, including its agricultural technology and symbolic expression, should be understood within the context of the risks, limitations, and potential of the Andean highland ecology. Some of these risks and limitations—such as droughts, frosts, deflation, and landslides—can be severe and persistent. The aforementioned “vertical control” and accompanying agricultural calendars can be seen in this sense as an effective means of reducing or dispersing “risks” in agricultural production at local or even regional levels. The organizational problem of applying the above riskdispersion and risk-reduction strategy for much larger areas, with their correspondingly greater variability in growing conditions, is what John Earls, an Australian ethnologist who has taught at the Catholic University of Peru, and Gabriela Cervantes, a Peruvian archaeologist, have addressed (chapter 8) on the basis of multifaceted data from the intriguing site of Moray, situated at 3,500 masl and ca. 35 kilometers northwest of Cuzco. This is a significant issue, given Inka efforts to intensify production of highly desirable crops such as maize and coca. The site consists of four large, natural, bowl-shaped concavities, the interiors of which were modified into orderly complexes of irrigated agricultural terraces with artificial fill. Systematic measurements taken of the amount and timing of sunlight exposure, ambient temperature, soil temperature and moisture content, and other variables at many points on terraces at the site reveal remarkable microclimatic variation approximating diverse growing conditions, all of which could have provided information to develop a series of algorithms to be applied in different areas of the empire for the successful cultivation of desired crops. Moray was much more than a marvel of hydraulic engineering or an agricultural experimental station; it also served as an astronomical observatory and pilgrimage center. Earls and Cervantes show that the site was

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carefully selected not only to take advantage of natural sinkholes, but also to enable a series of crucial astronomical observations for generating a calendar that articulated the aforementioned information on growing conditions and formulated algorithms that could be coded in khipus. Earls and Cervantes suggest that such information and orders for cultivation of specific crops were given to provincial administrators and leaders who reported to Moray on specified dates. Further, based on ethnohistorical and ethnographic sources, they suggest that site-construction dates to the reign of Huayna Capac, who also ordered large-scale land reclamation of the bottomlands at Yucay (see chapter 13, by Niles) and a maize cultivation project at Cochabamba, Bolivia (see chapter 7, by D’Altroy). Internal transformation of the empire appears to have accelerated during late Imperial history. Lastly, Earls and Cervantes show how the site and activities therein related to the ceque system in Cuzco (see their detailed explanation in chapter 8; also chapter 9, by Urton). Put simply, the system consisted of forty-one hierarchically ordered imaginary lines (i.e., ceque in Quechua) radiating out of the Sun Temple (Coricancha) in Cuzco. Each line connected a series of huacas, or sacred locations, and was associated with a particular social group, whose place in the ceque system reflected its niche in the prevailing political hierarchy. Each social group was responsible for maintaining and performing rituals on specified days. In essence, the ceque system functioned as a religious map and calendar as well as an abstract representation of Inka sociopolitical structure and order. Overall, Earls and Cervantes present a closely argued case study of Inka organizational complexity and innovation in agricultural technology, illustrating as well how a specific local site related to the broader Inka organization. As the authors note, many of their arguments can be tested by simulation studies. A complex organizational system such as the Inka Empire faced the major ongoing task of collecting, processing, and distributing diverse information without a written language. Critical in this regard was the khipu, the knotted-string recording device that was the principal instrument used for record-keeping and accounting in the Inka Empire. Runners, called chasqui in Quechua, were stationed at regular intervals along the roads to carry khipus to all parts of the empire via a relay system. Gary Urton (chapter 9), the leading

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authority on the khipu and an ethnologist at Harvard University, discusses our current understanding of the features of the khipu as an accounting device and the organization of the khipukamayuqs (“knot-makers/ organizers”) who were responsible for the oversight of Inka administration. Decoding information in khipus is a difficult task, as no written “user’s manual” has been found to date and the organizational knowledge and skills that were vital during Inka times rapidly disappeared during the Colonial era. To fully comprehend the function and significance of the khipu, Urton provides a synopsis of Inka conceptions of spatial and temporal order, untangling the complex concept of ceque and how the organization and functioning of the ceque system was recorded on khipus. Indeed, one can recognize the nested hierarchical organization of the khipu in other aspects of the Inka Empire: for example, the construction format of suspension bridges (Ascher and Ascher 1997) and the layout of the road system with its associated state facilities. These are further examples of the interwoven nature of the material, organizational, and ideological dimensions of the Inka Empire. Through the closely argued presentation of his analysis of two sets of khipus, Urton elucidates the khipu organization, including a nested hierarchy of dual and quadripartite divisions and the two-directional flow of information—with summation going up the hierarchy and partition going down to the local level—and thus effectively reveals the Inka organization of information gathering and management. Lastly, he reminds us of the importance of understanding the role of the cord keeper: “In carrying their knotted-cord records out into the countryside and unfurling these elaborate constructions in village plazas, recounting to the assembled populace the categories, classes, and numbers that constituted that community, the khipukamayuq and his knotted-cord record—local proxies for the Inka— became the sources of identity and legitimacy of the assembled group of people in the eyes of the state.” The Essence of Inka Culture and Unity in the Inka Empire The preceding section reveals the key institutions, strategies, personnel, and, to some degree, intent that underwrote the establishment and administration of the Inka Empire. In the four next chapters, 10 through 13, we examine what constituted the essence of Inka culture

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and what distinguished it from pre- and non-Inka traditions and achievements, particularly in regard to art, crafts, and architecture and their symbolic significance and cosmological foundations. Thomas Cummins (chapter 10), a renowned art historian at Harvard University, presents an incisive contextual analysis of Inka artistic expression in varied expressive media—architecture, ceramics, metal, and textiles—clarifying their interconnections with organizational ideals and imperial culture. His emphasis is not on the technical dimensions of individual objects or their varied external appearances. Inka creations as a whole are characterized not by realism—contrary to those of pre-Inka coastal cultures such as the Mochica (aka Moche)—but instead by a “geometric and numeric order” that relays a definite sense of a well-ordered world. Cummins treats Inka artistic creations as constituting a coherent whole that effectively captured the essence of Inka religious, political, and social concepts. It is an informative exploration into their “social life” and the Andean cosmology and aesthetics that guided their production—an ontological study. This broad-based approach and this conception of art and architecture are largely shared by Elena Phipps (chapter 11), an acknowledged authority on Inka and colonial textiles, and Stella Nair and Jean-Pierre Protzen (chapter 12), two leading Inka architectural historians at the University of California, Los Angeles, and the University of California, Berkeley (emeritus), respectively. They complement each other in showing how the Inkas employed symbolic, visual communication to the fullest extent to impress upon all imperial subjects their power, largesse, and prestige, as well as a sense of worldly order and the role played by the Sapa Inka. In essence, their art emphasized visual uniformity: this was a unified imperial art that readily distinguished itself from the wide array of local artistic expressions that persisted among the areas of the empire. The efficacy of the above approach is illustrated in Cummins’s analysis of ritual drinking vessels (those made of gold and silver are known as aquillas, while wooden ones are called queros or keros), which are one of the most important types of Inka ritual objects. They were always manufactured in identical pairs to symbolize the dualities that pervade Andean cultures, including moieties (hanan and hurin), or dual social organizations, and ever-present reciprocal, or “twinned,” bonds. These ritual vessels, as well as sumptuary gifts (such as fine tapestry weavings known as cumbi) that

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INTRODUCTION  13

the Inka bestowed upon the local leaders (curacas)— who accepted them to symbolize their allegiance to the Inka—in turn became not only treasured “relics” but also lasting reminders of their binding obligations to the Inka. Reconstructing the nature of a political relationship between the Inka and a given local leader based on information from written sources and/or pottery styles, however, is a daunting task (see below). The relationship celebrated later may not accurately reflect original perceptions and attitudes. At the same time, examination of the historical and political contexts of artistic expressions allows Cummins to offer a number of stimulating interpretations of the symbolic meanings of geometric designs, such as the tocapus that decorated uncus, or tunics. His claim that Inka art and architecture are “neither passive nor contemplative” is quite convincing, just as is his vision of the “materialization of Inka history and mythic history.” These objects and their settings—especially in the context of important historical events—had the capacity to act as the agency to change the perceptions and knowledge of the world of those who came into contact with them. In essence, Cummins explains the profound importance that places and landscapes held for the Inkas as well as for the people they conquered (see chapter 17, by Schjellerup, as an effective illustration). The explanation in turn allows us to understand why the Inkas built their own temples at prestigious pre- and non-Inka ceremonial sites (e.g., Pachacamac on the central coast) as well as at completely new centers (e.g., Huánuco Pampa, which was configured as a hawk) without any previous constructions. The above broadly based contextual approach also leads to the insight that artistic and other productive activities are imbued with the sacred and linked to the cosmological concept of camay, which may be characterized as “raison d’etre” or “vital energy” or “inspiriting power” (see Bray 2009; Salomon 1991; Taylor 1974–76). Phipps (chapter 11) also places Inka textiles squarely in the social and ritual contexts in which they were produced and utilized, to show that their motifs, layouts, materials, and techniques, as well as their high quality and uniformity, were materializations of the Inka Empire. She discusses the imperial institutions and strategies that incorporated a wide spectrum of the members of the empire, ensuring a reliable supply of textiles for varied imperial purposes, such as ritual

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offerings, royal gifts, and clothing soldiers. While a strict set of Inka designs and standards guaranteed the uniformity of products, Phipps notes that “some leeway was afforded to incorporate elements that may have had regional or local meanings.” Textiles are an effective means of shedding light on Inka gender identities. Recent discoveries of wellpreserved capacochas, or highly sacred child sacrifices, atop the highest and most venerated Andean peaks and at sacred sites on the arid coast, have provided examples of Inka female tunics (uncus) that had previously been quite scarce. These examples were instrumental to the recognition that orientation in the construction direction of design features was indicative of male (vertical) or female (horizontal) garments. Elegant and precisely fitted masonry architecture is one of the most widely recognized Inka achievements. Nair and Protzen (chapter 12) examine Inka architecture as a “unique visual language” and an integral part of the broader anthropogenic environment and landscape. Their focus is to understand managed diversity, or mosaics—local variation coexisting with an imposed unity. A set of uniform and distinctly Inka architectural forms and features (e.g., trapezoidal niches and doorways) created a sense of unity and uniformity and, at the same time, served as a symbolic expression of Inka power, permanence, and ideals of an orderly world. Nair and Protzen show that “Inka settlements were inherently flexible and thus could incorporate multiple functions, as necessary in a specific place and time, in order to best serve the growing needs of the Inka state.” Further, they argue that the reason for the success of their architecture and empire was the “Inka adaptability to local contexts and their ability to radically transform everything that lay within their reach” at an unprecedented scale. Results of Inka efforts to merge sacred natural and built environments are most evident at elite centers such as royal estates, palaces, and sanctuaries, which Niles (chapter 13; see below) has studied during much of her career. Nair and Protzen point out that it is at just such sites that the Inka manipulated water systems in multisensory ways to create specific visual, aural, and tactile experiences of sacred landscapes (e.g., cascading waterways, fountains, and baths). Earls and Cervantes (chapter 8) and Kaulicke (chapter 14) also discuss the power and importance of water for the Inkas. Many of the best-known Inka settlements were royal estates. Interweaving archaeological and ethnohistorical data, Niles not only answers questions con-

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cerning their distinguishing features, reasons for their construction, and how they were built and maintained, but also examines them for insights into broader imperial policies and institutions. Niles argues that “estates merge the personal and the political, for the Inkas’ selfaggrandizing histories similarly make political acts— military victories, diplomatic negotiations—part of the personal accounts of a king’s successes. The praiseworthy acts of Inka kings include victories over enemies and over nature, and the construction of estates brings both together.” In other words, estate construction was a highly visible, personal, and enduring symbolic act expected of each ruler: “The founding of the panaca as a corporate group [composed of descendants of the founder] was a duty of each ruling Inka. A second duty was the founding of an estate.” The estate(s) not only represented a vision of each ruler’s place in the world, but also served as a productive resource to support him and his panaca during his lifetime and to sustain his cult and support his descendants after he became a venerated ancestor (mummy). Given these functions, it is understandable that many estates were situated on productive areas close to Cuzco (i.e., the so-called Sacred Valley of the Inkas, the east–west trending Urubamba valley north and northwest of Cuzco; see fig. 1.2). More broadly speaking, however, reflecting as they did the varied status of labor forces employed and products/ resources gained, estates were also established in correspondingly diverse geographical settings. Exploring the broader dimensions of the royal estates, Niles examines the nature of the labor force involved in the establishment and maintenance of royal estates as a reflection of imperial policies and institutions governing human resources. Changes in the identity and status of mitimaes (permanently relocated specialists) brought to estates to yanacunas (hereditary retainers) serve to remind us of important internal transformations (along with an increasing number of tribute-exempt individuals and personal properties, among other major changes) that were taking place during the late phase of the empire. It should be apparent from the preceding discussions that Inka life was deeply rooted in the Inkas’ cosmological beliefs, yet the broad topic of Inka beliefs cannot be understood without the aid of historical documents. Piercing together information culled from Juan de Betanzos, Kaulicke (chapter 14) first offers a synopsis of how Inka conceptions of life, death, ancestors, Inti (or the sun, the Inka’s principal deity), and universal

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order intimately related to each other and to the Inka ruler himself. The Inka, the living son of Inti, was conceived as the unrivaled supreme ruler of the land, who became a god after death for continued veneration and involvement in world affairs. He embodied continuity among the past, present, and future of the world. He was assisted by the sun and his ancestors in creating and reordering the world, and in return he accompanied the sun’s daily journey into the dark Pacific, to reemerge the next morning reborn, bringing life-supporting water from the dark subterranean world. Sacrifices of many forms and kinds were necessary in support of this regeneration. His connection to the sun and water was seen as essential to agrarian success and universal renewal and regularity, which in turn afforded stability and social welfare to the empire and its people. The Inka religion, then, can be seen fundamentally as a fusion of the veneration of the sun and the Inka king in his multiple forms (including his mummified corpse) for the continuing security and welfare of the world. Having characterized the logic underlying Inka conceptions of life, water, death, and ancestors, Kaulicke explores the possibility that such logic was materialized in the spatial-architectural organization of Pisac in the Urubamba valley (fig. 1.2), one of the royal estates (along with Ollantaytambo, Machu Picchu, and others) attributed to the ninth Inka ruler, Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui (see chapter 13, by Niles). He offers a broadly framed discussion of landscaping in and around Pisac, showing that its major visible components, such as watercourses, rocks, and funerary structures, are intimately interconnected, reflecting Inka logic surrounding birth, death, and renewal. This is a provocative study, one that the author acknowledges is “prone to criticisms,” but it offers a valuable opportunity for the archaeological testing and refinement of data on Inka cosmology and logic that have been carefully extracted from the writings of Juan de Betanzos. Conquest and Administration of Provinces Much of the book is dedicated to discussion of the varied imperial policies, institutions, technologies, and worldviews that were broadly implemented or disseminated for material and symbolic effects and gains, a process that I have called “Inkanization.” Resistance to Inka conquest and rebellion against Inka domination appear

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INTRODUCTION  15

to have been met with brutal force, but how pervasive, intense, and lasting was Inkanization, as this process clearly varied in many respects? Was it confined to strategic areas close to what Covey calls the “corridors of power”? Or were the local impacts of Inka administration more subtle and extensive? These are some of the basic issues that chapters 15 thru 18 address. Pärssinen’s (chapter 15) presentation of recent findings from Antisuyu, the northeastern section of the empire, indicates that the Inkas intruded farther east into this area than commonly thought and that such intrusions occurred earlier than indicated by historical sources. Together with his call for a major chronological revision of the Inka expansion in Collasuyu, he cautions against facile acceptance of synchroneity among different media of expression (e.g., ceramics and architectural styles) as well as between historically recorded conquests and artifact-based dating. In essence, it is apparent that our efforts to understand the impacts, timing, and geographical extent of Inkanization still have a long way to go. Frances Hayashida (chapter 16), an archaeologist at the University of New Mexico who has long examined the nature and extent of Inkanization on the north coast of Peru, together with Natalia Guzmán, a Peruvian archaeologist, tackles the understudied and underappreciated challenge of recognizing Inka rule in a region. They argue that reliance on readily recognizable and uniform “high imperial style” (aka “Cuzco imperial style”) in varied expressive media (including architecture) will result in failure to recognize the true extent and nature of the impacts of the Inka rule and interaction with local populations. The problem they raise (see also Julien 1993) is in reality widespread. The classic work by Menzel (1976) shows how the nature of social and political relationships between local populations and the Inkas may be illuminated through highly detailed ceramic stylistic analysis. Hayashida and Guzmán, however, make a strong case that, at least on the north coast, and perhaps in many other areas, untangling their relationships through ceramic analysis may be more challenging. Through a review of case studies related to craft production in the Inka Empire, including Hayashida’s own research on ceramic production at La Viña, the regional Inka center on the north shore of the Leche valley, they remind us that in spite of differences in production contexts, artisans were permitted to maintain their traditional techniques and styles, while at the same time producing objects that clearly

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symbolized Inka presence and aesthetics. This was a well-established practice that has been documented for preceding periods in the same region: for example, Late Sicán potters produced Chimú-style vessels as well as those of their traditional style and Late Sicán–Chimú hybrids (Tschauner 2008); even earlier, Moche ethnic potters produced Middle Sicán–style vessels, those of their traditional style, and hybrids in the same workshop (Shimada and Wagner 2007). Hayashida and Guzmán offer a number of plausible explanations for this seemingly paradoxical situation, concluding that “careful consideration of state production and distribution as well as the different uses and meanings of objects and architecture in state and local styles” can “improve our ability to read the material record of Inka rule, and lead to a more nuanced and improved understanding of life in the empire.” In chapter 17, working from her long-term multidisciplinary research, Inge Schjellerup, archaeologist and senior fellow at the Ethnographical Collection of the National Museum of Denmark, illustrates the multifaceted and intense character of Inka occupation and exploitation of the densely forested, rugged, high jungle Chachapoyas region in northeastern Peru. She makes apparent the complex and highly contested nature of Inka administration, which resulted in part from the major restructuring of local polities and from huaca hostage-­taking—the widely implemented, forcible removable of local, venerated sacred objects called huacas to Cuzco, to secure the allegiance of local populations and symbolize their subordination to Inti, the principal Inka deity. The same strategies were also applied in other provinces of the empire (see Malpass and Alconini 2010). Environmental challenges clearly did not impede the major material and labor investment required for the construction of four major Inka installations with finely fitted masonry and other characteristic architectural and ceremonial features, as well as extensive agricultural terraces. This case of direct rule may have been motivated by the wide variety of natural resources that the region offered and the Inkas sought—anything from gold and salt to colorful feathers, pelts, and timber, to hallucinogenic and medicinal plants, including espingo seeds (Nectandra sp.). Overall, the Chachapoya situation, with the contentious relationship with local populations and desirable resources, exemplifies a case of Inka direct rule with a heavy investment of human and material resources far away from Cuzco. It effectively illustrates the uneven manner in

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16  IZUMI SHIMADA

which, and intensity with which, the Inka administered subjugated areas, a point Covey (chapter 6) emphasizes, and the importance of restructuring local social and sacred landscapes so as to establish a new ideological and social order that symbolized the Inka worldview and authority. In chapter 18, Bray offers an overview of the current state of knowledge regarding Inka expansion into, and subsequent consolidation of, the northern Ecuadorian highlands during the final days of the Inka Empire (ca. 1480–1533). Her study area has received only sparse scholarly attention, in part because of a “general lack of national interest in Inka archaeology in Ecuador until fairly recently.” To properly comprehend the impacts of the Inka conquest and administration as well as local responses, Bray, like many of the other contributors in the volume, first examines the pre-Inka sociopolitical developments, landscapes, and economic organizations and institutions of the ethnic Caranqui and Pasto, who occupied the circum-Quito and the Ecuador–Colombia frontier regions, respectively. She highlights the importance of a heterarchical, multiethnic sociopolitical landscape, and the “complex network of social and economic relations that involved the exchange of both goods and people,” including exogamy, child exchange, slave raid, and an elite-sponsored, specialized class of long-distance traders known as mindaláes. These cultural features, together with the distinct environmental conditions (e.g., greater precipitation, lower and more dissected topography), set these regions apart from what the Inka encountered in the central and south-central Andes, to the south. Integration of archaeological and ethnohistorical information leads Bray to argue, “The history of shifting alliances, low-level conflicts, and permeability of boundaries that characterized the region is suggestive of the different political strategies in play during the late pre-Columbian period. It was likely the fluidity of local relations together with the dense network of regional ties that enabled the Caranqui nation to successfully confront the imperial Inka juggernaut for as long as it did.” Against this regional background, Bray presents an emerging picture of Inka occupations based on the spatial distribution of two major categories of Inka settlements, hilltop fortresses and “lodgings,” or residential-­ administrative sites of varied size and importance. Many of these settlements appear to have been formerly

Shimada_5545_01-pp3.indd 16

occupied by local populations, a difference from the widespread Inka practice of constructing state installations in new settings. Nonetheless, recent archaeological excavations at these sites are revealing that there was indeed a significant material and labor investment (in two distinct phases) in establishing an appreciable number of state installations. In fact, this new generation of archaeological investigations has resulted in “a growing number of radiocarbon dates” that suggest that the Inka conquest of the northernmost area took place somewhat earlier than the conventional chronology; Pärssinen (chapter 15) also argues for a serious reassessment of the conventional chronology that Rowe established long ago. Bray concludes, “As new assays are published, refined, and recalibrated, they are beginning to decompress the traditional historical chronology and reorient our understanding of the rhythm and timing of imperial expansion out of the Cuzco valley and into other regions” (emphasis added). Overall, Bray’s chapter serves to highlight (1) our uneven understanding of imperial strategies for expansion and administration and local responses to them in both time and space, and (2) “the significance of the equatorial Andes to our understanding of the latter phases of imperial rule and the diversity of initial reactions to the Spanish invasion.” Within the past decade, after many years of indifference and a conceptual barrier between pre-Hispanic and Hispanic eras, there have been concerted efforts to cross this barrier and establish the archaeology of the Colonial era (e.g., Shimada and Vega-Centeno 2011). Recent and emerging results (e.g., Kaulicke, Urton, and Farrington 2002a, b, c; Wernke 2013) will complement an already impressive corpus of publications by ethnohistorians that deal with the varied consequences and responses to the Spanish conquest of the Inka Empire (e.g., Cook 1981; Ramírez 1996; Spalding 1981; Stern 1982; Wachtel 1977). The final chapter of the book, by Tetsuya Amino, a leading Japanese Andean ethnohistorian at the University of Tokyo, traces changes in the significance of the term “Inka”—what it means to be “Inka”—from the pre-­Hispanic to the Colonial period. The word has had diverse meanings, and it is known to have signified not only the supreme ruler of Tawantinsuyu, the exclusive group composed of the kin of reigning and past rulers, and the empire they established, but also an entity that possessed supernatural power that

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INTRODUCTION  17

could produce radical change in the world, as seen during the Colonial period. Amino clarifies the manner in which native Andeans confronted or embraced the varied meaning(s) of Inka at three different points in time. How did the perception at the height of the Inka Empire—a seemingly paradoxical juxtaposition of two polar opposites, lordly largesse and control over life— change during the Colonial era? Amino discusses the transformation, or what he calls the “three phases of Inka historicization,” that begins with the pre–Viceroy Toledan era (pre-1570) and ends with the Inka becoming an abstract symbol—akin to a huaca or enqa, the essence of all entities of the world. What Amino attempts is akin to Phipps’s (chapter 11) intent in examining Colonial-period textiles. In both cases the adoption of a longue durée (long-term historical) perspective allows the authors to gain a clear sense of what the Inkas symbolized. Phipps points out that Spanish efforts to alter or outright deny the tradition and symbolism embodied in textiles illuminates aspects of identity associated with them. At the same time, the symbolic importance of an “Inka” identity was consciously manipulated during the Colonial era. She concludes that “Andean garments remain a powerful legacy of the Inka tradition, mediated through the ongoing process of social transformation.”

Acknowledgments I thank Melody Shimada for providing editorial expertise and comments on my manuscript. Figures 1.1 and 1.2 were expertly prepared by Kayeleigh Sharp. Bibliography Alcock, Susan, Terence N. D’Altroy, Kathleen Morrison, and Carla Sinopoli

2001 (eds.)  Empires: Perspectives from Archaeology and History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ascher, Marcia, and Robert Ascher

1997

Mathematics of the Inkas: Code of the Quipus. New York: Dover.

Bauer, Brian S.

1992 1999

The Development of the Inka State. Austin: University of Texas Press. Early Ceramics of the Inka Heartland. Fieldiana Anthropology, n.s. 31. Chicago: Field Museum of Natural History.

Bauer, Brian S., and Alan R. Covey

2002 “Processes of State Formation in the Inka Heartland (Cuzco, Peru).” American Anthropologist 104:846–864. Bray, Tamara L.

2009 “An Archaeological Perspective on the Andean Concept of Camaquen: Thinking Through Late PreColumbian Ofrendas and Huacas.” Anthropology Faculty Research Publications 1. http://digitalcommons.wayne .edu/anthrofrp/1. Burger, Richard L.

Conclusion This book has been ambitiously conceived to present a holistic and integrated vision of the Inkas and their empire by bringing together a group of well-established scholars representing different countries, diverse academic disciplines, and varied interests. This project is ambitious in part because its subjects are truly multifaceted, with unity and diversity commingled, and notably dynamic. Both the Inkas and their empire were rapidly changing systems that constantly faced both predictable and unpredictable consequences of their growth. I hope this introduction has adequately primed the reader to make the most of the vast amount of information and insights contained within. I conclude this introduction with a question to ponder: What would have happened if the Spaniards had arrived a generation later? Would they have found an Inka empire? I hope the book provides the reader with the knowledge and critical perspective to contemplate this question.

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1989

“An Overview of Peruvian Archaeology (1976–1986).” Annual Review of Anthropology 18:37–69.

Cook, David N.

1981

Demographic Collapse: Indian Peru, 1520–1620. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Covey, R. Alan

2003

“A Processual Study of Inka State Formation.” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 22:333–357.

D’Altroy, Terence N.

1992 1997 2003

Provincial Power in the Inka Empire. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution. “Recent Research on the Central Andes.” Journal of Archaeological Research 5:3–73. The Inkas. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell.

D’Altroy, Terence N., and Timothy K. Earle

1985

“Staple Finance, Wealth Finance, and Storage in the Inka Political Economy.” Current Anthropology 26:187–206.

D’Altroy, Terence N., Christine A. Hastorf, and associates

2002 Empire and Domestic Economy. New York: Kluwer Academic/Plenum. Dillehay, Tom D., and Patricia Netherly

1988 (eds.)  La frontera del estado inka: Proceedings of the 45th International Congress of Americanists, Bogotá, Colombia,

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18  IZUMI SHIMADA

1985. BAR International Series 442. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports.

Murúa, Martín de

(1615) 1980  El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno. Ed. John V. Murra and Rolena Adorno. Trans. Jorge L. Urioste. 3 vols. Mexico City: Siglo Veintiuno.

(1616) 1962–1964  Historia general del Perú, origen y descendencia de los Inkas (Mss. Wellington). Ed. Manuel Ballesteros. Colección Joyas Bibliográficas, Biblioteca Americana Vetus, 1 and 2. Madrid: Instituto Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo.

Hyslop, John

Pillsbury, Joanne, ed.

1984 The Inka Road System. New York: Academic. 1990 Inka Settlement Planning. Austin: University of Texas Press.

2008 Guide to Documentary Sources for Andean Studies, 15301900. 3 vols. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press.

Guaman Poma de Ayala, Felipe

Julien, Catherine J.

1993

“Finding a Fit: Archaeology and Ethnohistory of the Inkas.” In Provincial Inka: Archaeological and Ethnohistorical Assessment of the Impact of the Inka State, ed. M. A. Malpass, 177–233. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press.

Ramírez, Susan E.

1996

The World Upside Down: Cross-Cultural Contact and Conflict in Sixteenth-Century Peru. Stanford: Stanford University Press.

Rostworowski de Diez Canseco, María

1999

History of the Inka Realm. Trans. Harry B. Iceland. New York: Cambridge University Press.

Kaulicke, Peter, Gary Urton, and Ian Farrington

Rowe, John H.

2002a–c (eds.)  Identidad y transformación en el Tawantinsuyu en los Andes coloniales: Perspectivas arqueológicas y etnohistóricas. Boletín de Arqueología PUCP 6–8. Lima: PUCP.

1946

Killick, David

2008 “Archaeological Science in the USA and in Britain.” In Archaeological Concepts for the Study of the Cultural Past, ed. Alan Sullivan, 40–64. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Malpass, Michael A., ed.

1993

Provincial Inka: Archaeological and Ethnohistorical Identification of the Impact of the Inka State. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press.

1982

“Inka Culture at the Time of Spanish Conquest.” In Handbook of South American Indians, ed. Julian H. Steward, 2:183–330. Bureau of American Ethnology Bulletin 143. Washington, DC. “Inka Policies and Institutions Relating to the Cultural Unification of the Empire.” In The Inka and Aztec States, 1400–1800: Anthropology and History, ed. George A. Collier, Renato I. Rosaldo, and John D. Wirth, 3–118. New York: Academic.

Salomon, Frank

1991

“Introductory Essay: The Huarochirí Manuscript.” In The Huarochirí Manuscript, ed. F. Salomon and G. Urioste, 1–38. Austin: University of Texas Press.

Malpass, Michael A., and Sonia Alconini

Schaedel, Richard P., and I. Shimada

2010 (eds.)  Distant Provinces in the Inka Empire: Toward a Deeper Understanding of Inka Provincialism. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press.

1982

Masuda, Shozo, Izumi Shimada, and Craig Morris

1985 (eds.)  Andean Ecology and Civilization. Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press. McEwan, Gordon F.

2005 (ed.)  Pikillacta: The Wari Empire in Cuzco. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press. 2008 The Inkas: New Perspectives. New York: Norton. Menzel, Dorothy

1976

Pottery Style and Society in Ancient Peru: Art as a Mirror of History in the Ica Valley, 1350–1570. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Schjellerup, Inge, Carolina Espinoza Camus, James Rollefson, Victor Quipuscoa Silvestre, and Mikael Kamp Sørensen

2009 La Ceja de Montaña, un paisaje que va desapareciendo: Estudios interdisciplinarios en el noreste del Perú/A Disappearing Landscape: Interdisciplinary Studies from North-Eastern Peru. Ethnographic Monographs 3. Copenhagen: National Museum of Denmark. Shimada, Izumi

1985 2013

Murra, John V.

1962 1975 1986

“An Archaeological Re-study of an Andean Ethnohistorical Account.” American Antiquity 28:1–4. Formaciones económicas y políticas del mundo andino. Lima: IEP. “The Expansion of the Inka State: Armies, War, and Rebellions.” In Anthropological History of Andean Polities, ed. J. V. Murra, N. Wachtel, and J. Revel, 49–58. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Murra, John V., and Craig Morris

1976

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“Dynastic Oral Tradition, Administrative Records, and Archaeology in the Andes.” World Archaeology 7.3:269–279.

“Peruvian Archaeology, 1946–1980: An Analytic Overview.” World Archaeology 13:358–370.

“Introduction.” In Andean Ecology and Civilization, ed. Shozo Masuda, Izumi Shimada, and Craig Morris, xi– xxxii. Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press. “Discussion: Mineral Resources and Pre-Hispanic Mining.” In Mining and Quarrying in the Ancient Andes: Sociopolitical, Economic, and Symbolic Dimensions, ed. Nicholas Tripcevich and Kevin J. Vaughn, 335–353. New York: Springer.

Shimada, Izumi, and Rafael Vega-Centeno

2011

“Peruvian Archaeology: Its Growth, Characteristics, Practice, and Challenges.” In Comparative Archaeologies, ed. Ludomir Lozny, 569–612. New York: Springer.

Shimada, Izumi, and Ursel Wagner

2007

“Craft Production on the Pre-Hispanic North Coast of Peru: A Holistic Approach and Its Results.” In Archaeology as Anthropology: Theoretical and Methodological Approaches, ed. James Skibo, Michael Grave, and

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INTRODUCTION  19

Meriam Stark, 163–197. Tucson: University of Arizona Press.

Trigger, Bruce G.

2003

Sinopoli, Carla M.

1994

“The Archaeology of Empires.” Annual Review of Anthropology 23:159–180.

Spalding, Karen

1981

“Resistencia y adaptación: El gobierno colonial y las elites nativas.” Allpanchis phuturinqa 15 (17–18):5–21.

Stanish, Charles

2001

“Regional Research on the Inka.” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 9:213–241.

Tschauner, Hartmut

2008 “Chimu Craft Specialization and Political Economy: A View from the Provinces.” In Andean Archaeology 3: North and South, ed. William H. Isbell and Helaine Silverman, 171–196. New York: Springer. Wachtel, Nathan

1977

Stern, Steve J.

1982

Peru’s Indian Peoples and the Challenge of the Spanish Conquest: Huamanga to 1640. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press.

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The Vision of the Vanquished: The Spanish Conquest of Peru through Indian Eyes, 1530–1570. New York: Barnes and Noble.

Wernke, Steve

2013

Taylor, Gerard

1974–76 “Camay, camac et camasca dans le manuscrit quechua de Huarochirí.” Journal de la Société des Américanistes 63:231–243.

Understanding Early Civilizations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Negotiated Settlements: Andean Communities and Landscapes under Inka and Spanish Colonialism. Gainesville: University Press of Florida.

Willey, Gordon R., and Jeremy A. Sabloff

1993

A History of American Archaeology. 3rd ed. London: Thames and Hudson.

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PA R T I

Written Sources, Origins, and Formations

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CHAPTER 2

Inkas through Texts The Primary Sources Frank Salomon Until 1533, a lineage with the status of divinity ruled the Andes: the Inka, “children of the Sun,” seated in a capital that, like many archaic cities, was also a cosmogram. Ethnologically they bear comparison to the “divine monarchies” in various parts of ancient Asia and Oceania. But unlike Asian societies, and unlike Mexico, the Andean empire called Tawantinsuyu (“land of four quarters”) has bequeathed to us not a single chronicle written from within the courts of these pre-European god-kings. Every page that speaks of Inkas is a relic of the upheaval that began with the Spanish invasion of 1532. Our sources about Tawantinsuyu, therefore, are never messages from the cultural interior of pre-­ Columbian society. They are all, in one sense or another, works of recall or comment on that civilization’s rupture. Every author was looking back on an Amerindian world already overtaken by the cascading transformations of defeat, epidemic, conversion, and political vassalage. Each testimony captured by scribes and translators was inevitably, to one degree or another, a work of recontextualization and reconceptualization addressed to emerging colonial concerns. In some cases we have near-verbatim depositions from Inka lineage members, but most of the time Andean voices come to us reformulated by Spanish chroniclers, translators, lawyers, administrators, scribes, and/or priests. And how transparent is this record? New research (Burns 2010) is starting to reveal some practices of specialized bilingual “scribes for natives” (escribanos de naturales), who brought Quechua discourse into relation with Spanish legal style. The emerging philology of “pastoral Quechua,” a variant of the Inka language purposely designed for teaching Catholicism, also sheds new light on how Andean words came to carry European meanings (Durston 2007). Spanish in its turn was

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modified as well, because it needed resources to address post-Inka realities. Spanish remained a minority language far into the Colonial era. It adapted by acquiring a Hispano-Quechua colonial jargon. Could we hear the language the chroniclers actually spoke, it might sound a bit like the Hindi-­influenced colonial English collected in that strange lexicographic classic of the British Raj, Hobson-Jobson (Yule and Bernell [1903] 1995)— that is, enriched and modified by colonial uptake of native language. This chapter concerns Inka textual legacies created by people who spoke in such ways. It is an essay in simplification. It points to only the most central primary sources, and has nothing to say about the glorious library of commentary and synthesis that grows from them. Researchers who need to go beyond simplification and delve into source criticism enjoy a wealth of fuller resources. Early attempts to give guidance about primary sources on Inkas tended to group writers according to simplistic criteria, such as whether the authors were politically pro-Inka or devoted to Spanish supremacy. Although their authors lacked access to recently discovered sources, and were usually captive to prejudices against indigenous witnesses, some of these older guides nonetheless are still worth a look for their authors’ rich knowledge of political and ecclesiastical contexts in Spain as well as America (Porras 1962; Vargas Ugarte 1952). By the later twentieth century, a more sophisticated source criticism had come to see “chronicles” not as raw material to be sorted and graded qualitatively but as voices within a total social conversation: Renaissance and Baroque discourses in the context of indigenous America (Araníbar 1963; Pease 1988; Rowe 1965; Bravo Guerreira and González Pujana 1992).

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24  FRANK SALOMON

Chroniclers’ attempts to explain Inka religion, polity, and economy have in themselves become fertile themes for intellectual historians (Thurner 2011; MacCormack 1991; Villarías Robles 1998). As for historiography proper, in 2008 a three-volume compendium was published under the editorship of Joanne Pillsbury (with contributions by Catherine Julien, Kenneth J. Andrien, and Eric Deeds). Detailing each major Andean source and its editions, this Guide to Documentary Sources for Andean Studies, 1530–1900 contains valuable commentaries by a multitude of scholars. It is a logical first stop for anyone hoping to probe the textual legacies of Inka and post-Inka Andean society. In the present essay, sources are grouped in clusters, each of which represents a “conversation”—that is, a social nexus of discussion or forum where representations of the Inka age were exchanged and debated during the first century of Spanish rule. Each of these documentary nexuses arose from a characteristic kind of contact with Inka persons, their subjects, and their legacies: military, dynastic, legalistic, pastoral, commercial, administrative, etc. This approach is meant to point toward a sociology of knowledge concerning Inka things, rather than to a syllabus of approved sources. Each cluster to some degree speaks its own colonial idiom—or, one might better say, its own cross-cultural pidgin. Perspectival differences among clusters are what allow Inka ethnohistory a degree of roundedness. But because many of the best texts were intended as dialogue connecting different colonial spheres, attaching each text to any single nexus necessarily involves some degree of arbitrariness. This approach sacrifices a simple unified chronology, but it is safe to say that within each cluster the earliest writings and discussions have a special standing in the eyes of researchers. Early dates matter, because as the colonial decades advanced, a system of intercultural “working misunderstandings” quickly came to overlay the initial, vital conversations (and silences) of contact. Even the word “Inka” itself in its meaning of “a sovereign emperor” is almost absent in the earliest stratum. We find that, only a few years after first contact, conventions and interethnic “working misunderstandings” based on the supposition that Inkas were like European kings are already obstructing the ethnographic view. For our purposes, “early” means from the contact period (1520s–1530s) through the solidification of the so-called Mature Colonial society (1570s–1600s)—a

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more generous definition of “early” than one finds in rigorously detailed studies, but perhaps a convenient one. On delving into primary sources, even a novice reader soon comes to understand how important it is to distinguish elements of fresh ethnographic encounter from the colonial–Inka imaginary increasingly canonized by institutional power. For this reason, the critical “archaeology” involved in peeling back historiographic stereotypes and in detecting noncanonical sources independent of the familiar chronicles (for example, Espinoza Soriano 2003) is just as vital to improving Inka studies as is archaeology proper. For each work, the citations here provide a widely available edition in the original language. Where a competent English translation exists, it is also cited. Further aids to reading primary sources can be found at the online Handbook of Latin American Studies search page (http://lcweb2.loc.gov/hlas/mdbquery.html) and other Internet resources. “Soldierly” and Maritime Narrative The Pizarro brothers’ 1532 assault on the divine king Atahualpa, together with its chaotic consequences, gave rise to a military conversation as long as the lifetimes of the “Men of Cajamarca” (Lockhart 1972). Its theme is Peru as an epic of arms. Invaders tended to perceive Inkas through the illusory symmetry of enmity, or through stereotypes from the “reconquest” of Spain (when Christian kings reclaimed the country from Muslim states). But they did see the Inkas close-up, and in true situations of first contact. Gestures of violence formed a drama of half-­ communication at the start. Perceptions were inchoate, with glimmers of ethnographic surprise. Ex post facto efforts to reinterpret and ideologize Spaniards’ early incursions as a providential epic—or to justify them in the face of the pro-indigenous criticism of Dominican friar Bartolomé de las Casas and his followers, which had crested just before the invasion led by the Pizarro brothers—do color most “soldierly” accounts. Individual memoirs are sometimes built up around old fighters’ career interests in refuting accusations of atrocity or disloyalty to the Crown, or in securing pensions and titles. Even though such hindsight arguments quickly

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overlaid their initial perceptions, soldiers who fought their way into Tawantinsuyu sometimes wrote startlingly fresh testimonies. Before Spaniards had even touched the soil of Tawantinsuyu, the pilot Bartolomé Ruiz intercepted a native deepwater sailing raft and provided a description (1527–1528) foundational to studies of pre-Hispanic trade (Relación Sámano 1985). Pedro Pizarro had barely landed on the beach of Tumbes when he noticed Inka officials using the Andean knotted-cord registry (khipu; see chapter 9, by Urton) to document goods looted by the mysterious seaborne raiders. Almost forty turbulent years had gone by before Pizarro wrote his narrative ([1571] 1986), but his memory of that enigmatic moment remained fresh. Several other old soldiers still speak eloquently to Inka specialists. Among them are Cristóbal de Mena, who in 1534 gave Europe its first influentially published account (1987) and Miguel de Estete, a far-traveling officer who witnessed the Spanish sacking of the great pre-Inka and Inka shrine-citadel at Pachacamac on the central coast of Peru ([1533] 1987). By an astonishing fluke, the record also preserves testimony of one soldier who was present at the fateful ambush of Cajamarca, but on the Inka side. He was Yaku Wilka, later baptized Sebastián, and he was interviewed as a witness in a trial involving other veterans of 1532 (Guillén Guillén 1973:50). In Yaku Wilka’s memory, Inka soldiers doubted whether barbarians with so much body hair could really be a significant threat. Among the old soldiers, one towers above the rest. Pedro Cieza de León came to America as a teenager in arms, fighting across what are now Venezuela and Colombia. His main service was to the Crown’s 1546 expedition to “pacify” rebellious Pizarran warlords. As the royal army slogged southward through the Inka state’s equatorial periphery into its south-Andean heartland, the young trooper learned about native lords and carefully watched scenes of “Indian” life. He stuffed his saddlebags with the notes that he wrote while other soldiers slept. In 1553, at only thirty-four years of age, he published the first part of the Crónica del Perú (see fig. 2.1). Ethnographically thoughtful and astute, Cieza’s account of the Inka state (1985, 1998) has the special merit of embodying an outsider’s perspective: Cieza had visited many of Tawantinsuyu’s peoples firsthand before he laid eyes on the sacred capital, making him uniquely able to relativize the grand Inka narrative as a part of a larger Andean story.

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Figure 2.1. Pedro Cieza de León’s Chronicle of Peru was published with illustrations by an artist who knew of America only from verbal descriptions. Its unreality suggests how far Europe then was from accurately conceiving of American culture. Anonymous.

Administrators as Imperial Ethnographers: Refashioning the Ex-Inka State Chronicles make up only a small part of the record derived from Inka and other indigenous testimony. A much larger body consists of material generated within Spain’s civil and church bureaucracies as they strove to remold unfamiliar peoples into a tightly supervised vassal peasantry. Pedestrian though it looks at first glance, bureaucratic writing opens new vistas on the indigenous past. Chroniclers focused on activity at the apex of Inka society because they understood history as the product of war, dynastic succession, law-giving, priesthood, and a few other sites of power. Administrators—such as viceroys, judges, lawyers, tribute accountants, and notaries—on the other hand, found that building an imported state over American peoples entailed learning much more about the down-to-earth practices that had underpinned Inka glory. Their papers cover what chroniclers neglect. They focus on houseto-house detail, they summarize local customary laws, they collect the testimony of thousands of people too low-ranking to interest conquistadores, and they deal

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with the prosaic domains of work and family. At their best, administrative sources are like ethnographic field notes from the past—and not just any past, because, fortunately, the richest ones were written at early dates, when it still was possible to interview people who had reached adulthood under Inka rule. Colonial law allowed natives to litigate for redress of confiscations during wartime, or for correction of tribute abuses. When native lords challenged conquistadores, they found new uses for the ancient knottedcord medium called khipu. Such challenges give us one of our few entryways into the Inkas’ own methods for recording knowledge about the past. Spaniards learned early on that the code of knots had served the Inka state comprehensively: as an administrative medium, cords contained demographic and economic records, but they were also said to encode genealogies, laws, myths, and songs. Spaniards never learned the cord method for encoding verbal information, and its reconstruction remains a keenly debated problem in current anthropology (see again chapter 9, by Urton). Spaniards did, however, quickly learn that the heirs of the Inkas could manage quantitative data at least as well as Spanishtrained accountants. Courts regularly admitted khipubased testimony (Brokaw 2010:164–257; Salomon 2004:109–136; Sempat 2002). Some of the resulting “paper khipus” amount to sources about Inka times, insofar as they cite Inka laws and levies as baselines for measuring the costs of Spanish colonization (Pärssinen and Kiviharju 2004; Urton 2002). The late Catherine Julien (2002) carried the argument about “paper khipus” further, detecting Inka royal biographies and rules of succession in transcribed cord readouts. As the colonial state and Church evolved from the turbulence of conquest to the imposition of complex, rigid institutions, the viceroys, especially Francisco de Toledo (1569–1581), demanded of their functionaries detailed plans to put Andean societies into imperial harness. Some of the viceroyalty’s specialists in native affairs were lawyers with acute (though merciless) ethnographic insight. Juan Polo de Ondegardo researched Inka institutions with sleuthlike subtlety, discovering the structure of radial lines (ceques) from the center of Cuzco that governed ritual rank and duty, and he tracked down the royal Inka mummies (see chapter 14, by Kaulicke). Polo strove to conserve the productive efficiency of Andean polities while demolishing the symbolic supports of Inka rule, lest the still-­prominent Inka lineages become rivals to viceregal power (Polo

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[1571] 1990). In debating how much or little the state should meddle with Inka institutions, Polo’s peer jurists, such as Francisco Falcón ([1567] 1946) and Juan de Matienzo ([1567] 1967), produced a valuable corpus on the nuts and bolts of Inka rule. Concurrently with gathering such information, the viceroyalty also sponsored historical researches designed to quash forever the politically dangerous claim that Spanish conquest had illegally usurped the sovereignty of Inka lineages. Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa’s 1572 (1998, 2007) anti-Inka synthesis, biased yet richly grounded and compellingly written, formed an influential mainstay of the viceregal chronicle genre. Encountering Peoples Who Lived under Inka Rule The Inka “tyranny” Toledo imagined was not pure fiction. He was expressing an ethnocentric Spanish view of tensions that really were inherent in Tawantinsuyu as a multiethnic and precariously centralized empire. The demographically small Inka lineages never found it easy to govern and articulate for hundreds of other peoples, who spoke many languages and who each had its own ambitious noble house. To understand the Inka state without studying its hugely greater population of nonInka peoples would be as feckless as trying to understand the Europe of classical antiquity by studying Romans without learning about Teutons, Egyptians, Persians, Gauls, and Celts. The field of “Inka provincial” ethnohistory has been the most fertile for document-based research since the 1940s. Administrative sources have proven absolutely vital to studies of what later became far northern Peru, Bolivia, Chile, and Ecuador (see chapters 15, 16, 17, and 18, by Pärssinen, Hayashida and Guzmán, Schjellerup, and Bray, respectively). Even in the Inka heartland they alter perspectives (see chapter 6, by Covey). Three sorts of documents are especially rewarding. First are visitas, field surveys carried out by colonial judges to ascertain the demography, resources, productive systems, and customary laws of Andean populations. Their immediate purpose was usually to set tribute quotas and regulate extraction of wealth by Crown grantees (encomenderos) and clergy. As a benchmark for tribute levies, colonial law required visitadores to find out what tribute was formerly paid to the Inka state. As a result, some visitas contain not only virtually total

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documentation of how local ethnic polities worked, but also detailed retrospective explanations of how they fitted into Inka institutions. The best visitas are usually early ones, of the 1550s through 1580s. At least twenty detailed visitas have been retrieved. Among the most revealing for Inka studies are those concerning the Quito area, in the empire’s far northern margins (Salomon 1986; Mosquera and San Martín [1559] 1990) (see, for example, fig. 2.2), the “lakeside kingdoms” of Lake Titicaca (Diez de San Miguel [1567] 1964), central Peru’s Huánuco area (Visita de la provincia .  .  . [1562] 1964), and the Collaguas, near Arequipa in southern Peru (Collaguas [1591] 1977). Second, in the latter part of the sixteenth century innumerable indigenous noblemen (and a few noblewomen) of varied ethnic groups mounted lawsuits in Spanish courts over succession to noble title, or over rights to land and irrigation water. They battled each other with khipu records and oral histories, and called in hundreds of witnesses, whose knowledge of local realities far surpasses anything transmitted by chroniclers. Such lawsuits often prove to be revealing of the political realities that lay behind mythological and ideological claims. To cite one of the best-studied cases, for several decades after the Inka lost control and before Spanish claims were stabilized, two ethnic groups in a valley near Lima wrangled fiercely over valuable coca-growing land, at first with slings but soon with lawyers’ briefs. Their papers (Rostworowski 1988) swept up amazing firsthand testimonies of the Inka all-empire ceremonial climax called qhapaq hucha (capacocha), and of how Inka intervention manipulated the precious coca leaf economy. Sometimes, as in the 1582 Memorial de Charcas (1969), native lords’ depositions provide important insights about ethnic power bases to which Tawantinsuyu had adapted itself. They reveal the ideal claims of Inka rule (for example, that Inka goods were extracted from newly developed lands and not from conquered groups’ own subsistence). But they also afford glimpses of Inka realpolitik, as when Inka power used rivalries among ethnic lords as a wedge to insert new Inka power bases. Third, the Spanish state unintentionally pulled Inka historical memories into the written current when it required its far-flung functionaries to submit long memoranda about their regions in response to questionnaires. Some specially commissioned reports came in

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before the genre took standardized shape, as for example Damián de la Bandera’s 1557 (1965) Ayacucho report, notable for its discussion of Inka matrimony and age classes, or Hernando de Santillán’s ([1563] 1968) explanation of Inka laws of governance. Likewise, as early as 1558 two commissionaires reported on how the Inka governed an important enclave among the Pacific coast peoples in the Chincha valley on the southern coast of Peru (Castro and Ortega Morejón [1558] 1974). From the 1570s onward, standardized questionnaires provided the Council of the Indies with a database about places where benefices and offices could be sold (legally) to Spaniards looking for colonial careers. These documents are known as relaciones geográficas, or “geographical reports.” Some curates and administrators responded to the call with almost ethnographic thoroughness, occasionally embedding local accounts of the remote past and detailed statements about Inka legacies,

Figure 2.2. This page from the 1559 visita of villages near Quito mentions a previous inspection made with khipus and lists belonging to the enormous household of the ethnic lord Don Juan Zangolquí. AGI/S Justicia 683 fol. 822v.

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Figure 2.3. Diego Dávila Briceño added this map to his 1586 “geographical report” on a province near Lima. The crossed lines partitioning it represent old Inka divisions between halves of two provinces. (From Dávila [1586] 1965:155–165)

including both cultural information and descriptions of Inka structures. Such documents are especially precious when they describe historically marginalized, low-status groups rarely considered by chroniclers, such as the ethnically stigmatized Cañaris or the forest-dwelling peoples living on the Amazonian fringes of the Inka domains (see chapter 17, by Schjellerup). Many newfound as well as classical “geographical reports” have been published in compilations (Jiménez de la Espada 1965; Ponce Leiva 1991) (see, for example, fig. 2.3). Consistently, the most enlightening recent works on the peoples of Tawantinsuyu’s outer provinces are those that present newly recovered “geographical reports,” visitas, and lawsuits. In Chile (Boccara and Milos 2007), Bolivia (Platt et al. 2006), and Ecuador (Caillavet 2000), these studies are now bringing Inka and post-Inka ethnohistory to a level of “big picture” synthesis comparable to the long-established monuments of Spanish colonial historiography.

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Churchmen and the “False Gods” Just as royal centralism gained strategic control of conquest society only after decades of postinvasion turbulence, so the Archbishopric of Lima imposed standard parish structures and dogmas only after an era of relatively diverse and experimental encounters between Catholic clergy (especially mendicant orders such as the Augustinians, Dominicans, Franciscans, and Mercedarians) and the Andean priesthoods. The story of Andean peoples’ myriad oracles, mummies, and deified mountains is very much a colonial as well as an archaeological one. A few very early descriptions of Andean religion exist amid the archival papers of religious orders. Most striking among them is the Augustinian Juan de San Pedro’s 1561 (1992) description of the provincial deity Catequil. Catequil’s cult was born far from Cuzco (near Huamachuco, in the north highland of Peru), but it

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transformed into a widespread, Inka-sponsored, statesubsidized cult. From 1570 on, Jesuits were writing important in-house documents about Andean “idolatries,” many later published in specialist compilations. Other internal documents of early conversion campaigns, such as the Mercedarian missions under the leadership of Fray Diego de Porres, may still await discovery. Meanwhile, clergy of all stripes built power bases to influence the rapidly consolidating Archbishopric of Lima. Some Dominicans, like the great Quechuist Fray Domingo de Santo Tomás in the 1560s, belatedly carried on a Las Casian pro-indigenous position, attributing to Inka cult a light of “natural” theology. (This same friar produced, as early as 1560 [2006], the first dictionary and grammar of the Quechua language, in itself a powerful source for Andean terms and ideas.) Far from Cuzco, in the remote northern Bishopric of Quito, the diocesan cleric Lope de Atienza was also building from his wide experience in humble “Indian” parishes a curiously sympathetic book ([1572–1575] 1931) that detects Inka echoes in rough-hewn village life. But ten years later, the Toledan viceroyalty was probing the Inka legacy with hostile intent. Cristóbal de Molina “cuzqueño,” Toledo’s diocesan visitor, had already become intimately familiar with Inka ritual as remembered by noble lineages and still practiced by plebeian ones, when Viceroy Toledo’s allies commissioned him to write his Account of the Fables and Rites of the Inkas ([ca. 1576] 1989, 2011). It contains uniquely rich information about Inka prayer and their calendar. Toledan influence notwithstanding, Molina shows a sneaking sympathy for Inka rites insofar as he thought he saw a latent parallelism with the “true faith”—an already widespread train of thought then, and one that continues to influence both popular and learned Peruvian Catholicism up to the present. José de Acosta S.J., also a strong Quechuist, led a decidedly anti-Inka Jesuit faction. He and his allies, with much political support, damned native cult as diabolical deception, but at the same time advocated intellectual engagement with elite “Indians.” When the archbishopric convened a summit conference to permanently define policy toward native peoples (1582– 1583), Acosta had already written (though not published) his treatise On Procuring the Salvation of Indians. His was the hidden hand that drafted official Quechua catechetical texts, as well as laying down the regimen for indoctrinating and taxing natives relocated in colonial resettlements. In 1590, Acosta finished his Natural

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and Moral History of the Indies (1987, 2002). It contains a farseeing ethnological overview of Inka society—one integrated with the more advanced natural-philosophy reasoning of his times, but also (and perhaps for that very reason) imbued with stereotypes and misleading comparisons to “pagans” of other times and places. His contemporary and possible acquaintance Miguel Cabello de Valboa similarly wrote his grand “antarctic” (i.e., southern-hemisphere) history with the intent of locating Andean peoples within universal history and geography ([1586] 1951). Cabello’s writings have the special merit of embodying firsthand experience among peoples in the little-documented northern Peruvian and northwestern Ecuadorian fringes of the Inka domains. “Postconciliar” works about Inkas (meaning those postdating the fateful Third Council of Lima, 1582– 1583) inevitably involve taking positions about native “idolatry”—that is, Andean religion imagined as a diabolical parody of Christianity. This was the archbishopric’s era of maximum dogmatism and aggression. “Conciliar” policy laid down uniform rules requiring curates of “Indian” villages to preach in one of the main Andean languages, to enforce the sacraments through native religious bailiffs, and to teach compulsory doctrina— a catechetical system whose published manuals stand among the earliest American printed books. For “Indians” with more advanced knowledge of Catholicism, Churchmen soon published elaborate (and literarily artful) sermon books (Avendaño 1649) and devotional manuals in “pastoral Quechua” (Oré [1598] 1992). As surviving members of pre-Hispanic Inka society died out, Andean commoners were more and more seen as mere vassals and ready pawns of Satan. Clerics, like others, increasingly exoticized and distanced the old, royal Inkas. This is true even of such a prodigiously researched work as the Mercedarian Martín de Murúa’s illustrated History of the Origin and Royal Genealogy of the Inka Kings. The first of several successive versions was under way in the 1580s. (Its endurance in multiple versions makes a complex bibliography, of which the color-illustrated 2004 facsimile [see figs. 2.4, 2.5] is the high point.) Meanwhile, the actual management of colonialborn “Indian” Christians became the business of a rapidly growing and bureaucratizing Church, a business with high stakes in terms of career-making and political economy. Jesuits, armed with a viceregal alliance, were in the ascendant. Jesuit missionaries built up stel-

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Figure 2.4. In one of the watercolors that Guaman Poma contributed to Murúa’s chronicle, Inka Capac Yupanqui is shown with the human “sacrifice that he makes to the sun” (Murúa [1590] 2004:95v). A divine epithet is written on the mountainside: pacha yachachic, “World-Teacher.” (From Murúa [1590] 2004:95v) Figure 2.5. Another of Guaman Poma’s illustrations to Murúa shows non-Inka people in Inka-style worship. A “Puquina” man gives “coca” leaf bundles while a “colla” gives an “allpaca.” The mountaintop idol is “Titicaca,” an allusion to the lake’s mythic fame as the place where humanity emerged. (From Murúa [1590] 2004:103v)

Figure 2.6. Diego González Holguín’s great Quechua dictionary (1608), though written to set norms for “pastoral Quechua,” contains innumerable entries that explain words derived from Inka usage. Anonymous.

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lar resources for turning Andean languages to Catholic purposes through lexicography and grammar (Bertonio [1612] 1984; González Holguín [1608] 1952) (see, for example, fig. 2.6). Jesuits frustrated rival clerics, such as Bartolomé Alvarez, who held preconciliar diocesan benefices in the far southern Andes (today’s Bolivia). Alvarez’s sharply coercive (rather than Jesuitically persuasive) program against Andean cults now matters less than the uniquely detailed information he wrote about some of the Inka state’s remotest and most culturally singular former subjects ([1588] 1998). Still, a few postconciliar writers stuck to the proInka position. The dissenting Jesuit Blas Valera was the son of an Inka princess and a conquistador father. As he developed his revisionist Western [that is, American] History, he looked backward to Las Casas (who had died in 1566) but also forward to the emergence of a fully Christian (rather than neophyte) indigenous intelligentsia. The Western History manuscript was burned in a 1596 English raid on Cádiz. But the remnants were saved by Valera’s friend Garcilaso de la Vega, also a halfInka would-be nobleman, who achieved deep humanist learning after migrating to Spain. Garcilaso transcribed what he could of Blas Valera’s history and integrated it, with clear attributions, into his own 1609 (1966, 1995) Royal Commentaries of the Inkas. Despite Garcilaso’s incalculable influence on European ideas about Inkas, Valera’s surviving texts show his fresher and deeper knowledge of Inka culture. Both men sympathized with a Christian Neoplatonistic current that held that natural realities such as heavenly bodies could be interpreted as signs of God’s nature and action, in a way that would only enrich the higher truths of revelation. To Valera and Garcilaso, therefore, Inka sun-worship and other, specifically royal cults embodied an admirable apprehension of the divine within the limits of a culture without the Bible. They thought accordingly that American Catholicism should develop within rather than against the Inka heritage—a policy that, if Spain had accepted it, might have located the descendents of Inka kings among Christendom’s highest nobility. An anonymous short Jesuit monograph making this argument in detail ([1593–1597] 2011) probably comes from Valera’s pen. Echoes of Valera’s NeoplatonisticInka utopia resounded onward for at least another century in heterodox Jesuit versions of Inka history, such as Anello Oliva’s ([1631] 1998). A body of controversial “Naples papers” purports to contain Valera’s and Oliva’s

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Inka arcana about khipus, Inka religion, and the conquest (Laurencich 2009; see also Sansevero 1750). It may contain fakes by later adherents of this utopia. At least one of the drawings is faked from a 1936 facsimile edition (Krabbe and Boserup 2013; Guibovich 2003). By 1600 “Indian” sacred culture and the half-sacred political memory of the Inka had thus passed through a number of transformations. With Inka priesthoods, pilgrimages, and temples destroyed, non-Christian ritualism became decentralized and localistic. It lived on as a myriad of popular rural cults attached to huacas: caves, mountains, ancestor-mummy shrines, sacrificial altars, and pre-Hispanic ruins that were taken to be the bodies or habitations of divinities who primordially “owned” peasants’ lands, waters, and their very persons. By 1600 most “Indians” had found ways to combine their huaca duties with their Catholic obligations. A few individuals were exempted from Catholic duties so as to furnish the old gods with wives, servants, and oracles. The famous “extirpation of idolatries,” which periodically lashed Peru in several waves from 1608 to a fadeout after about 1710, was therefore anything but a sudden ambush on surviving outcrops of pre-Hispanic culture. When ecclesiastical judges went forth to sleuth out and punish huaca devotions, burning mummified ancestors by the thousands and smashing every shrine they could find, they were building careers by discrediting the results of earlier Christianization (Estenssoro 2003) or putting out fires of heterodoxy fanned by rival curates’ commercialization of their parishes (Acosta 1979). The most approachable “extirpation” book (Arriaga [1621] 1968, 1999) is literally a training manual for such persecutors. Yet the “extirpators” unwittingly preserved in documentation the very culture they set out to destroy. The Archbishopric of Lima (and to a lesser degree several other sees) houses a stupendous corpus of “idolatry trials.” In them, words of great huaca oracles like the defiant Hernando Hacas Poma and the voices of humble worshipers by the hundreds are still heard—even their screams on the torture rack, which ecclesiastical secretaries saw fit to transcribe. Pierre Duviols has printed a large collection of trial records (2003). One ethnographically astute extirpator, Rodrigo Hernández Príncipe, in 1621–1622 retrieved a precious description of how villagers took part in the supreme Inka ceremonial cycle (Duviols 2003:731–778). Most other “extirpation” testimonies are localistic rather than Inka-centric, yet by mentioning the Inka subsidies or affiliations of

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their huacas they vitally illustrate how the memory of Inka times became a theme in what is today called Andean culture. Inka Witnesses and the Claims of Tawantinsuyu’s Heirs Like Inka power, Spanish power flowed along lines of marriage and descent. To the conquistadores it seemed natural to forge the first connections between Inka royals and Spanish power through marriage. In the regional context of Cuzco, the consequences proved enduring. Perhaps the most truly Inka of all Peruvian books was a by-product of one such marriage, Juan Díez de Betanzos’s 1544 union with Cuxirimay Ocllo. Commissioned by a viceroy but guided by his wife and in-laws, Betanzos produced the Summary and Narration of the Inkas ([1551–1557] 1987, 1996). He translated and explained Cuxirimay’s lineage’s proprietary version of Inka dynastic lore. Betanzos, almost uniquely among chroniclers, was truly close to intra-Inka discourse. If his (or perhaps her) book is hard to read, it is hard in a good way: Betanzos tried to “preserve the manner and form of speaking of the natives” by bending Spanish toward Quechua syntax and rhetoric. While some Inka survivors made Spanish alliances, others fought on. For thirty-six years, starting in 1536, a stripped-down, militarized miniature of the Inka state battled Spaniards from its Vilcabamba redoubt in the Amazonian rainforest. The intransigents negotiated with envoys of the viceroyalty, and in 1565 received Augustinian missionaries as well. Their holdout Inka king, Titu Cusi Yupanqui, was baptized Diego de Castro. As the viceroyalty threatened invasion, Titu Cusi collaborated with an Augustinian and a clerk to answer the threat polemically. The result was the first book to proclaim indigenous authorship ([1570] 1992, 2005a, 2005b, 2006). At once a legal brief for Inka rights to resistance and a kingly tale with genre resemblances to Spanish drama, Titu Cusi’s book failed to deter Toledo. His successor, Tupac Amaru, the last Inka sovereign, was brutally executed in 1572. Nonetheless, Inkas as noble lineages lived on far into the Colonial era. Around Cuzco, they constituted a glamorous yet politically suspect elite. The claims of Inka royal and noble lineages as expressed to others— lawyers and judges, but also their spouses and heirs—

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are crucial to counteracting the common, mistaken notion that Inka history ended in 1532 (see chapter 19, by Amino). In 1569, twenty-two descendants of the tenth Inka, Tupa Inca, presented claims to royal descent with a view to recovering lands formerly reserved for Inka royals. Uniquely valuable for its close mimicry of a khipu source, the text (Probanza 1985) affords clues to Inka notions of historicity. A document of obscure origin purporting to contain information from khipu masters seems to embed Inka memories in the claims of one proSpanish lineage (Relacíon de la descendencia [1608] 1974). Many of the subsequent copious legal papers through which colonial-Inka households addressed the state are oriented to family business and local political issues. Usually these interest colonial more than Inka specialists. But art historians Carolyn Dean (1999) and Teresa Gisbert (Gisbert, Arze, and Cajías 1987) have retrieved iconographic evidence to show that in their vital role as living, ceremoniously paraded incarnations of Cuzco’s ancient legitimacy, colonial Inkas cultivated a Baroque version of genuinely pre-Hispanic memory. An Indigenous Intelligentsia Reconsiders the Inka Legacy The Inka and otherwise Andean culture that comes to us on paper is not a transcript of what existed on the eve of the European invasion but the record of more than a whole generation’s conversation about what the seemingly abyssal differences between European and American humanity might mean. Nowhere is this clearer than in the writings of a few Quechua- and/or Aymara-speaking indigenous men who grew up and made their careers biculturally, by moving along early Colonial interfaces and fault lines. By around 1600 the first generation born into colonialism had become elders. Some few had absorbed Spanish bookish culture (usually by working as scribes or aides to clergymen), to the point where they were able to answer colonial representations of their people with original counternarratives. Their literature is far less abundant in the Andes than in Mexico, but no less important. Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala was born of Andean—but not Inka—parents close to the date of the invasion. He carried this motive to a visionary extreme, titling his vast and overflowingly illustrated book the

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New Chronicle and Good Government of Peru ([1615] 1987, 2006, 2009). The title is an implied critique of nonindigenous chronicles, which by 1600 looked to him old and wrong. In Guaman Poma’s eyes, Spain had faced the worldhistorical opportunity to unite halves of humanity that did not know each other, and thereby hasten the worldhistorical drama to its redemptive goal. Spain had failed in this, producing instead injustice and a betrayal of faith. Guaman Poma knew colonial elites well; it is clear that he drew many or most of Murúa’s illustrations; and he tried through a vain lawsuit to win a colonial noble title. Now this audacious, quarrelsome autodidact meant to set the whole world to rights by combining the resources of Andean culture with Christian moral criticism. Even after cautiously observing Guaman Poma’s engagement with his own contemporaneity, no reader can fail to be amazed by the detail and variety of Inka and other pre-Hispanic history he recorded. Guaman Poma’s work contains a detailed account of Inka-era social organization, unique for its drawings (see figs. 2.7–2.9) and

Figure 2.7. In his own book, Guaman Poma drew the Inka royal-divine couple Topa Ynga Yupanqui and Mama Ocllo Coya on procession in their quispe rampa, “crystal litter.” The bearers are labeled as being of the Callauaya people, renowned for swiftness. (Guaman Poma [1615] image online at http://www.kb.dk /permalink/2006/poma/333/en/text)

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for its provincial’s-eye viewpoint. Guaman Poma stands out for his interest in Inka royal women and “chosen women,” as well as women of vassal society. He did not live to see his work read much. It gathered dust, unread, until 1908, when Richard Pietschmann found it in the Royal Library of Copenhagen. Today the entire work is available on the Copenhagen library’s website (http:// www.kb.dk/en/nb/tema/poma/index.html). Guaman Poma’s ideas overlap those of his indigenous contemporaries at many points. In obscure interstices of the postconciliar cultural scene, an intellectual culture of Indianness was taking shape. Bonded to Christianity but determined to reconceptualize rather than simply erase the pre-Hispanic legacy, these Andean dissidents produced works richer in local knowledge than any other. One of Guaman Poma’s peers, Juan de Santa Cruz Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua, wrote a comparably Christian-cum-Andean revisionist history from the viewpoint of the Lake Titicaca region ([after 1600] 1993). Far north, near Quito, a half-indigenous clergyman named Diego Lobato de Sosa worked on a similar text. It has not been found, but book II of the

Figure 2.8. Guaman Poma’s tocricoc, which he identifies with a Spanish word for a royal district governor, has been stationed in the provinces because his broken earlobe makes him ritually impure for the sacred center in Cuzco. He cannot wear the large earplug signaling Inka standing. (Guaman Poma [1615] image online at http://www.kb.dk/permalink /2006/poma/348/en/text)

Figure 2.9. An Inka “bridge inspector” and an Andean-style suspension bridge illustrate laws about traffic regulation in Guaman Poma’s chapter on the Inka bureaucracy. (Guaman Poma [1615] image online at http://www.kb.dk /permalink/2006/poma/358)

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of all Quechua sources (Huarochirí Manuscript [1608] 1991, 1999) (fig. 2.10). It goes far beyond Ávila’s Machiavellian purpose. Alone in the whole documentary legacy it explains an Andean mythology, with its priesthoods and customs, in an Andean language. Its author, as a Christian, meant to combat the old gods yet lived entirely within their imagined world and never doubted their reality or power. His purpose is, he says, to write the book that “the ancestors of the people called Indians” would have written had they, like the Spanish, known writing. From Ávila’s point of view, this author ran away with the colonial project and made something rather dangerous out of it: using the distanced standpoint of a Christian, he tries to pull the myriad legends and laws into a coherent worldview. He saw a “religion” (fe in Spanish), rather than the mess of diabolical superstitions extirpators thought they saw. Several chapters tell about how the Inka state interacted with local gods and how Inkas appeared to local, non-Inka people: as invaders, to be sure, but also as patrons of the local huacas and even as suppliants when they needed help for their wars. Inka Studies: Forever Reading

Figure 2.10. A page of the 1608 Quechua manuscript of Huarochirí. Anonymous.

otherwise mediocre late chronicle by Fernando de Montesinos contains a close derivative of this or some similar north-Andean Inka narrative (Hyland 2007). These ponderings did not take place only in urban centers. On the eve of the “extirpation” campaigns, in the rural province of Huarochirí, the brilliant but unscrupulous bilingual curate Francisco de Ávila hired someone—it seems to have been a certain Cristóbal Choque Casa, a man trained to help curates by writing “pastoral Quechua”—to sniff out and write down the names of worshipers of huacas. Ávila meant to use them as a club to beat parishioners whose complaints had landed him in an ecclesiastical jail. Indeed, Ávila shortly afterward used the results to justify what became the first of the “extirpation” campaigns. What his indigenous sleuth had written, Father Ávila held in secret. Today we know that secret document as the greatest

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What these primary-source writers individually took from their pasts is as varied as memory itself. All our testimonies bespeak particular viewpoints; some are excellent, but none conclusive. These writers ask different questions in pursuit of clashing projects, about many of which we are doomed to be forever guessing. If we lack the chronicle we might dream of—a miraculously surviving testimony of a world “without us”—we possess at least a wealth of different partial reconstructions. Some researchers see a chance to triangulate upon Inka times “as they really were” by using multiple sources and adjusting for their biases. Others, of less positivist bent, are fascinated by intellectual “contact zones” where the different foci of Inka discourse continued to meet and challenge each other. Certainly the persistence of Inka voices far into the Colonial period suggests that we should think of Inka culture and debates about it as an ongoing concern that endured long after the genealogically Inka elite lost its hegemony. Indeed, many Andean populations who battled the Inka as foreign aggressors in the fifteenth century were by 1700 starting to think of themselves as “Inka”

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INKAS THROUGH TEXTS  35



in a broad sense (see chapter 19, by Amino). Today, the word “Inka” is an all-purpose symbol that has become much broader in reference than was the proprietary genealogical ethnonym of Cuzco’s pre-Columbian elite. Because there is no end of questions, the Inka canon will never be sealed. One persistent axis of debate is whether, or how, post-Tawantinsuyu writings should influence archaeology (see chapters 5, 15, and 16, by Bauer and Smit, Pärssinen, and Hayashida and Guzmán, respectively); should they provide a heuristic for excavators? Or should archaeology maintain its separateness lest the biases of royal or colonial mentality distort inquiry? Another old debate has been given new life by “postcolonial” criticism: since the writing of texts about Inkas took place as part and parcel of the process of Spanish colonization, with writing itself enshrined as the privileged technology of Spaniards, how can we ever be sure that the record contains anything independent of the premises of Iberian imperialism? How can we be sure that the people called “witnesses” in this essay were not victims of unintentional or even intentional ventriloquism? A newer approach tries to step out of this mind-set by asking about resources of Andean memory independent of the colonial “lettered city” or distanced from it, such as the colonial reworking of khipus for local governance or the development of vernacular literacies (Salomon and Niño-Murcia 2011). Certainly the study of the Andean documentary record remains an expanding universe. Some of the “presumed or lost” chronicles Porras Barrenechea urged historians to search for in 1951 have been found. Others still may be. Surprising new papers turn up as neglected archives are reorganized. Intellectual frontiers include the discovery of writings by Andean intellectuals of the later colony (Dueñas 2010), study of little-known archives in villages (Salomon and Niño-Murcia 2011), and the full application of historical linguistics to historiography (Pearce and Heggarty 2011). For even the most accomplished Inka ethnohistorians, however, the greatest discovery will always be the first: the astonishing freshness and strangeness one experiences when putting aside piles of treatises and diving directly into the original sources. This is a library of which one never tires.

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(1615) 1987  Nueva corónica y buen gobierno. Ed. John V. Murra, Rolena Adorno, and Jorge L. Urioste. 3 vols. Crónicas de América 29. Madrid: Historia 16. (1615) 2006  The First New Chronicle and Good Government (abridged). Ed. and trans. David Frye. Indianapolis: Hackett. (1615) 2009  The First New Chronicle and Good Government (abridged). Ed. and trans. Roland Hamilton. Austin: University of Texas Press.

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INKAS THROUGH TEXTS  37



Guibovich, Pedro

Mena, Cristóbal de

2003

(1534) 1987  “La conquista del Perú, llamada la Nueva Castilla,” ed. Miguel A. Guérin. In Crónicas iniciales de la conquista del Perú, ed. Alberto M. Salas, Miguel A. Guérin, and José Luis Moure, 89–118. Buenos Aires: Plus Ultra.

“Review Essay: Las polémicas en torno a Guaman Poma de Ayala.” Colonial Latin American Review 12:99–103.

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1973

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Huarochirí Manuscript

(1608) 1991  The Huarochirí Manuscript: A Testament of Ancient and Colonial Andean Religion. Ed. and trans. Frank Salomon and George Urioste. Austin: University of Texas Press. (1608) 1999  Ritos y tradiciones de Huarochirí del siglo XVII. Ed. and trans. Gerald Taylor. 2nd ed. Lima: IFEA, Banco Central de Reserva del Perú, and Universidad Ricardo Palma. Hyland, Sabine

2007 The Quito Manuscript: An Inca History Preserved by Fernando de Montesinos. Yale University Publications in Anthropology 88. New Haven: Yale University Press. Jiménez de la Espada, Marcos, ed.

1965

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Molina, Cristóbal de, “el cuzqueño”

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(1559) 1990  Visita y numeración de los pueblos del valle de los Chillos. Ed. Cristóbal Landázuri. Fuentes para la Historia Andina 1. Quito: Marka/Abya-Yala. Murúa, Martín de

(1590) 2004  Historia del origen, y genealogía real de los reyes incas del Perú. Ed. Juan Ossio. Madrid: Testimonio Compañía Editorial. Oré, Luís Jerónimo

2002 Reading Inka History. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press.

(1598) 1992  Símbolo católico indiano. Ed. Antonine Tibesar, Isabel Martinto de Vargas, and Luís Enrique Tord. Lima: Australis.

Krabbe Meyer, Mette Kia, and Ivan Boserup

Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua, Juan de Santa Cruz

2013

(post 1600) 1993  Relación de antigüedades deste reyno del Piru. Ed. Pierre Duviols and César Itier. Lima: IFEA/ Cuzco: CERA “Bartolomé de las Casas.”

Julien, Catherine J.

“Fakes and Facts: The Contract between Guaman Poma and Blas Valera.” Paper given at the Second International Guaman Poma Colloquium, the Royal Library, Copenhagen, Oct. 26, 2013.

Laurencich Minelli, Laura

2009 “Exsul immeritus Blas Valera populo suo” e “Historia et rudimenta linguae piruanorum”: Indio, gesuiti e spagnoli in due documenti segreti sul Perù del XVII secolo. Bologna: Cooperativa Libraria Universitaria Editrice Bologna. Lockhart, James

1972

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MacCormack, Sabine

1991

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Pärssinen, Martti, and Jukka Kiviharju

2004 (eds.)  Textos andinos 1: Corpus de textos khipu incaicos y coloniales. Serie Hispano-Americano 6. Madrid: Instituto Iberoamericano de Finlandia. Pearce, Adrian J., and Paul Heggarty

2011 (eds.)  History and Language in the Andes. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Pease G.Y., Franklin

1988

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2008 Guide to Documentary Sources for Andean Studies, 1530–1900. 3 vols. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press.

Matienzo, Juan de

Pizarro, Pedro

(1567) 1967  Gobierno del Perú. Ed. Guillermo Lohman Villena. Lima: IFEA.

(1571) 1986  Relación del descubrimiento y conquista del Perú. Ed. Guillermo Lohmann and Pierre Duviols. Lima: PUCP.

Means, Philip Ainsworth

(1928) 1973  Biblioteca Andina[, pt. 1]: Essays on the Lives and Works of the Chroniclers; or, The Writers of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries Who Treated of the PreHispanic History and Culture of the Andean Countries. Detroit: Blaine Ethridge-Books. Memorial de Charcas

(1582) 1969  “El ‘Memorial’ de Charcas: ‘Crónica’ inédita de 1582,” ed. Waldemar Espinoza Soriano. Cantuta: Revista de la Universidad Nacional de Educación 4:1–35.

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Platt, Tristan, Thérèse Bouysse-Cassagne, Olivia Harris, and Thierry Saignes

2006 Qaraqara-Charka: Mallku, Inka y rey en la provincia de Charcas (siglos XV–XVII). La Paz: Plural. Polo de Ondegardo, Juan

(1571) 1990  Notables daños de no guardar a los Indios sus fueros. In El mundo de los Incas, ed. Laura González Pujana and Alicio Alonso, 33–171. Crónicas de América 58. Madrid: Historia 16.

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38  FRANK SALOMON

Domingo-Qorikancha/Warsaw: Sociedad Polaca de Estudios Latinoamericanos/Jerusalem: Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalén.

Ponce Leiva, Pilar

1991

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Porras Barrenechea, Raúl

1951 1962

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Probanza de los Incas nietos de conquistadores

(1569) 1985  Ed. John H. Rowe. Historica 9:193–245. Relación de la descendencia . . .

(1608) 1974  Relación de la descendencia, gobierno, y conquista de los Incas. Ed. Juan José Vega. Lima: Biblioteca Universitaria. Relación Sámano

(1527–1528) 1985  Relación Sámano. In Verdadera relación de la conquista del Perú, by Francisco de Xérez, ed. Concepción Bravo, 175–184. Crónicas de América 14. Madrid: Historia 16.

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Native Lords of Quito in the Age of the Incas: The Political Economy of Northern Andean Chiefdoms. New York: Cambridge University Press. 2004 The Cord Keepers: Khipus and Cultural Life in a Peruvian Village. Durham: Duke University Press.

(1570) 1992  Instrucción al licenciado don Lope García de Castro, del Inca don Diego de Castro Titu Cusi Yupanqui. Ed. Liliana Regalado de Hurtado. Clásicos Peruanos 9. Lima: PUCP. (1570) 2005a  An Inca Account of the Conquest of Peru. Ed. and trans. Ralph Bauer. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. (1570) 2005b  Titu Cusi: A Sixteenth-Century Account of the Conquest. Ed. and trans. Nicole Delia Legnani. Cambridge, MA: David Rockefeller Center for Latin American Studies, Harvard University. (1570) 2006  History of How the Spaniards Arrived in Peru. Ed. and trans. Catherine Julien. Indianapolis: Hackett.

Salomon, Frank, and Mercedes Niño-Murcia

Urton, Gary

Rostworowski de Diez Canseco, María

1988

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Salomon, Frank

1986

2011

The Lettered Mountain: A Peruvian Village’s Way with Writing. Durham: Duke University Press.

San Pedro, Juan de

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1750

Lettera apologetica dell’Esercitato accademico della Crusca contenente la difesa del libro intitolato “Lettere d’una Peruana” per rispetto alla supposizione de “Quipu” scritta alla duchessa d’S** e dalla medessima fata pubblicare. Naples.

Santillán, Fernando de

2002 “An Overview of Spanish Colonial Commentary on Andean Knotted-String Records.” In Narrative Threads: Accounting and Recounting in Andean Khipu, ed. Jeffrey Quilter and Gary Urton, 3–25. Austin: University of Texas Press. Vargas Ugarte, Rubén

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Visita de la provincia . . .

Santo Tomás, Domingo de

Yule, Henry, and A. C. Bernell

(1560) 2006  Lexicon, o Vocabulario de la lengua general del Perú. Ed. Jan Szemiński. Cuzco: Convento de Santo

(1903) 1995  Hobson-Jobson: A Glossary of Colloquial AngloIndian Words and Phrases . . . . London: John Murray.

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(1562) 1972  Visita de la provincia de León de Huánuco en 1562. 2 vols. Ed. John V. Murra. Huánuco: Universidad Nacional Hermilio Valdizán.

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CHAPTER 3

The Languages of the Inkas Rodolfo Cerrón-Palomino

[D]e lo cual hubo Guascar gran contento y riéndose dijo a los orejones Cuzcos: “¡Los Collas han habido esta victoria; mirad la obligación que tenemos nosotros de imitar a nuestros antepasados!” (For this Guascar was very happy, and, laughing, he said to the Cuzco orejones: “This victory belongs to the Collas; we must look to our obligation to imitate the ways of our forebears!”) Sarmiento de Gamboa ([1572:64] 1965:269)

Shimada_5545_03-pp3.indd 39

A good way to delve into the subject matter at hand is first to offer a synopsis of preestablished knowledge concerning the original language attributed to the Inkas as it can be inferred not only from texts about Inka history written for popular consumption, but also from academic texts written by specialists from such disciplines as ethnohistory and archaeology. According to this canonized knowledge, the original language of the Inkas would have been Quechua, emerging in Cuzco, from which point it would have been gradually dispersed according to the rhythm of the wars of conquest and the expansion of the empire until it had spread to the vast geographic expanse recognized and lauded by the sixteenth-century Spaniards. The evident fact that the language spoken by the descendants of the Inka nobility was, definitively, Quechua seemed to support this, as did the fact that when the orally transmitted Inka history began to be written down, translated first into Spanish, it was with the help of a series of informants and khipukamayuq (khipu keepers; see chapter 9, by Urton) summoned for this purpose. As such, it should come as no surprise that a good part of our vocabulary pertaining to Inka history and civilization has come to us via Quechua, also passing through the filter of this language’s grammar. This canonical vision of Inka history managed to be consolidated in a period when the study of language as a social discipline remained alien to the interests of those investigating the societies of the Andean past. But even when there was no lack of scholars who endeavored to remedy this inattention by incorporating in their reflections the element of linguistics—specifically between the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth—the underdeveloped nature of the field in the Andean region hindered a better understanding of the facts under consideration. We would have to wait

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40  RODOLFO CERRÓN-PALOMINO

until the second half of the twentieth century for the discipline—which by this time had become a rigorous science—to install itself in our academic setting, particularly in its historical and descriptive aspects, and thus lend itself to in-depth studies of the situation in the Andes. Thanks to such studies (e.g., Parker 1963; Torero 1964; Hardman 1975 [1966]), today we have a better understanding of the history and evolution of the major languages of ancient Peru, particularly those of Quechua and Aymara. This knowledge would have remained in a vacuum, the result of a purely academic and decontextualized exercise, however, if parallel efforts had not been made to correlate such work with that of related disciplines concerned with the study of the past, especially ethnohistory and archaeology—all in the name of a complete understanding of the Andean world. Unfortunately, this criterion of cross-disciplinary work does not seem to have echoed as strongly among archaeologists and ethnohistorians, who generally continued in the old practice of ignoring the contributions of their linguist colleagues, or, in any case, of operating independently, on the margin of the efforts made by linguists. It is true, as is argued especially by archaeologists (see chapter 5, by Bauer and Smit), that our disciplines pursue different objectives using equally different methods; nonetheless, the time has come to exchange ideas and undertake studies that, without distorting the theoretical and methodological premises unique to each dimension of study, may allow us to reach basic, fundamental consensus over some aspects of Andean prehistory, overcoming in this way the old preconceptions. It appears that this very concern has produced two fairly recent symposia on the interrelationships among archaeology, history, and linguistics: at the University of Cambridge (Sept. 2008) and at the Catholic University of Peru (Aug. 2009). Accordingly, in the following passages we will offer first what might be called a cursory, and wherever possible agreed-upon, characterization of the major languages of ancient Peru, as it relates to two fundamental aspects: (a) their initial location and (b) their geographical and dialectal distribution. To do this we will invoke the data offered by historical Andean linguistics, making use not only of the strictly dialectological and reconstructive work on the pertinent languages, but also of studies that are philological in nature (i.e., the scientific analysis of written records and literary texts), when we find written sources, and onomastic in

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nature (i.e., relating to proper names), when the former materials are scarce or completely absent. Second, once the languages are characterized in the terms we have mentioned, we will aim to establish a relative chronology of their use and life span, this time availing ourselves as much of the available historical sources as of the information resulting from archaeological research. Specifically, the time frame that interests us corresponds approximately to the archaeological periods of the Late Intermediate (a.d. 1100–1450) and Late Horizon (a.d. 1450–1532). The Major Languages of Ancient Peru The Quechua Language The dialectal studies carried out in the early 1960s (e.g., Torero 1964), as well as comparative works executed since (e.g., Parker 1969a–d, 1971; Torero 1968), demonstrated categorically that Quechua was in fact a family of languages comprising a collection of dialects, of which the Cuzco variety was merely one, albeit the most prestigious. Stripped of any attribute that wasn’t strictly linguistic in nature, the diverse members of this language family could then be ordered and classified synchronically, by sorting the phonological and grammatical isoglosses (geographical boundary lines delimiting areas in which certain linguistic features occur) into two large branches: the so-called Quechua I (QI), or Central Quechua (CQ), occupying the central Peruvian Andes, and Quechua II (QII), geographically more diffuse, with two discontinuous sub-branches, situated to both the north and the south of QI, which is considerably more local in character. Quechua’s dialectal diversity, described in the terms mentioned here, must be explained diachronically as the result of a series of changes produced within the language over the period from its beginnings as a protolanguage to its surviving modern-day reflections. In light of the dialectal and comparative studies mentioned, today we can maintain, in relation to the history and the evolution of Quechua as a whole: (a) that the QI dialects have proven to be the most conservative, in that they best preserve some features of the mother language (protolanguage); (b) that, as such, these particular varieties will constitute firstclass testimony when it comes time to reconstruct the

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protolanguage (PQ), or ancestral tongue, from which all members of the family are derived; (c) that the profound diversity that characterizes the QI varieties suggests that the territory in which they are spoken is the ideal locale for the birthplace of the protolanguage sought by researchers; (d) that, therefore, we can discard the southern region as the cradle of the mother language; (e) that the idea that Cuzco Quechua, which forms part of the Southern sub-branch of QII, might be considered a variety similar to the protolanguage should be dispelled, for total lack of grounds; and (f) that, similarly, neither is there any weight to the idea that the Inkas were the initial propagators of the language, since, as we will see below, the Inkas before Pachacuti’s reign spoke Aymara.

Thus, as we can see, studies in Quechua linguistics were responsible for amplifying the perceived dialectal and geographical coverage of the language and the historical depth of its evolutionary development. In addition, they eradicated the prejudices that prevailed in relation to the language, among which stand out, and quite conspicuously, its supposed Cuzco origins and its imaginary “pristine” character, in terms of being a faithful reflection of the protolanguage. It goes without saying that such claims are the result both of the exaltation, by the Third Council of Lima (1582–1583), of the respective variety as the Quechua language par excellence and of its later literary development by its cultivators in both Colonial and Republican times. In addition, such studies—at the same time they were responsible for exposing the aforementioned fallacies—also served to call attention to the importance of the central dialects of the language, whose fall from grace was rooted in the anointment of Cuzco Quechua as the model variety of the language, among other factors. The Aymara Language As is the case with Quechua, descriptive, dialectal, and comparative studies of Aymara originated in the second half of the twentieth century. Until this time, Aymara was only understood to be the highland variety of the language, whose exemplary forms—first that of Puno, Peru, and later that of La Paz, Bolivia—enjoyed precedent in grammatical and lexicographic studies dating back to the Colonial era. This perspective, however,

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changed radically from the moment when the local varieties that continued to survive in the headwater region of Lima in Yauyos came to be considered sister varieties of the high-plateau dialects and in “glottological parity” with them (Hardman 1966). The identification of the varieties in Yauyos as Aymara languages remained in doubt precisely because of the lack of descriptive and comparative studies, and their insular configuration in the center of Quechua dialects equally unknown and underestimated. Thus was imposed a total revision of the studies of the language, whose attention had until then privileged the high-plateau dialects to the exclusion of all others, due to the overall ignorance of their central counterparts, which are later integrated into the “Aymaraic” (aimaraica) family, to employ an adjective coined in the sixteenth century by the first scholar of the language (e.g., Hardman [1966] 1975, 1975, 1978). So the family is composed of two languages separated by phonological isoglosses: Central Aymara (CA) and Southern Aymara (SA). The first currently comprises the remnants of a linguistic entity of greater geographical coverage, which, with their own local names, managed to survive in the face of the constant siege of Quechua: Jacaru and Cauqui (the latter in the process of total extinction); the second (SA) includes the collection of mutually intelligible dialects, traditionally referred to as “Aymara,” whose distribution is spread throughout the southern Andes and shared by Peru, Bolivia, and Chile (Briggs 1993 [1976]). Having come to describe the Aymara languages in these terms, we may be surprised by what appears to be the meager composition of the dialects that make up CA, in contrast with what occurs with the numerous members of the SA branch. Philological and onomastic evidence, however, permits us to easily reconstruct the continuous territory previously occupied by the language family, in such a way that the insular configuration of CA, which was baselessly interpreted as being the result of a supposed highland origin, can be explained as the effect of its splintering off and its later domination by Quechua in the latter language’s advance toward the southeast Andes. Working from studies of the family as a whole, we can maintain the following: (a) Aymara, far from being a single idiomatic entity or, worse, consisting only of the altiplanic variety, is a family made up of two languages;

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(b) the CA varieties constitute veritable relics that faithfully preserve features attributable to the protolanguage from which they were derived; (c) the marked fragmentation that characterizes such dialects, in contrast with the relative uniformity of the SA dialects, demands that the ancestral language of the family be placed in the central Andes; (d) the supposed high-plateau origin of the language, which is not consistent with its own dialectal reality, must be discarded; (e) the credit given to the creators of Tiwanaku (Tiahuanaco) for being the speakers and propagators of the language, as commonly believed by archaeologists, is equally void of any evidentiary support; and (f) finally, the current distribution of the language is the final result of several periods of diffusion in the direction of the central south, which met unmatched resistance by the previous push of Quechua into the central Andean region, but which displaced Puquina and Uro in the highlands (see below).

So we have observed, as in the case of Quechua, that studies of Aymara were responsible for tearing down the fallacies surrounding the language and its cultural history; these inaccurate theories were forged at a stage when knowledge about the language was still nebulous, but they nonetheless still enjoy full recognition today in nonspecialized domains, particularly among both national and foreign archaeologists in Bolivia (Browman 1994; Albarracín-Jordán 1996; Stanish 2003). Like what has occurred with the member entities of Central Quechua, studies of Aymara were responsible for vindicating the Central Aymara varieties’ place as true testimonial dialects for the reconstruction of the protolanguage (PA). Puquina Unlike what occurs with Aymara and Quechua—languages that are widely used, especially in their southern varieties—Puquina (Pukina) went extinct around the second half of the nineteenth century, yielding to the former two after a lengthy process. In fact, according to what we infer from colonial documentation, even at the time of the Spaniards’ arrival, the geographical distribution of this language appeared in the form of a veritable archipelago, as a result of the intrusion of Aymara and Quechua into its territory. Consequently, the speakers of the language, most of them bilinguals, were already

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replacing their native Puquina with either of the dominant languages. Given that the memory of the Puquina-Colla people was transformed by their Aymara- and Quechuaspeaking colonizers, the little (to nonexistent) importance given to their culture and language should come as no surprise. Furthermore, because of their cohabitation on territory shared by the Uro people, above all on the riverbanks and islands of the “interior sea” (Lake Titicaca), their language ended up being confused with that of the lakeside inhabitants, though it was a completely foreign entity, lacking any relation that was not strictly geographical and cultural. The survival of Uro, and consequently the possibility of studying it (see Cerrón-Palomino 2006; Cerrón-Palomino and Ballón Aguirre 2011), constitute the best guarantee we have of the veracity of this glottological boundary, just as José Toribio Polo (1901) strived to demonstrate more than a century ago. That said, on the one hand, from a linguistic perspective, despite the fact that Puquina had been recognized by the authorities of the viceroyalty as a “general language” (Toledo [1575] 1989:97–100), it does not seem that its grammar was “reduced in art” (i.e., codified), nor was its lexicon collected and recorded, as in the case of other languages, including lesser ones like Mochica. All evidence indicates that here the pragmatism of the evangelizers prevailed, evangelizers who, in light of the majority bilingualism of the Puquina speakers, preferred to save themselves the work of preparing grammars and vocabularies of the language, and at most left us with a few pastoral texts copied from outlines previously drawn up in Quechua and Aymara. On the other hand, from a historical-cultural perspective, news of the Puquinas is just starting to emerge as a result of the “exhumation” work that historians and linguists have been carrying out since the last decades of the past century. Thanks to this type of work, characteristics that were attributed to the Aymara people and culture are now being recognized as pertaining to the Puquina civilization. As a result of the aforementioned rescue effort, the Puquina people—whose furtive image blearily peers out from between the pages of chronicles, and whose ethnic name “Colla” (see the quote at the beginning of this chapter) was usurped by their dominators of the moment, making them the victims of a historical impersonation—begin to show their face and, with it, their identity, along with the legacy of their language and

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Figure 3.1. Languages and peoples in the Late Intermediate Period. (Drawn by Nicanor Domínguez)

their culture. But also, thanks to information gathered from documents and from toponymy, a more precise picture of the geographical area covered by the language at the time of its maximum extension is able to be brought into view. In the absence of grammars and vocabularies, it is difficult, if not impossible, to obtain a precise idea of the grammatical organization and the lexical constitution of the language. Something of this can be grasped, however—albeit inevitably in modest, scattered, and incomplete fashion—by deducing the recurrent grammatical structures and scrutinizing the lexical roots revealed in the pastoral texts recorded by Oré (1607). The database for this record is seriously restricted in both form and content by the bias inherent in the nature of the allocated materials. Fortunately, however, there remain other routes of investigation by which said lack may be in part remedied, though in this case with data that concern only the

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lexical aspect. We are referring to, first off, the Puquina lexicon, which is shared by Callahuaya, the professional language of the Charazani herbalists, in use until recently and recorded by Oblitas Poblete (1968) and Girault (1989). Second, we have the information provided by onomastics (the study of the origins and forms of proper names) attributed to the language, identifiable not only in the written colonial sources, but also in the toponymy, whose abundant presence permits us, furthermore, to reconstruct the map of the geographic territory previously submerged by Aymara and Quechua (fig. 3.1). Third, we call attention to an additional source of information, overlooked until now: the identification of Puquina vocabulary scattered throughout the monumental Aymara lexicon compiled by the Italian Jesuit Ludovico Bertonio ([1612] 1984). In the identification of such lexical items, the following procedure is of vital importance: beyond the simple comparison of elements similar in form and meaning, whenever possible these elements must be rigorously controlled via the phonological rules of the language as they are inferred from the careful examination of Oré’s materials (for this, see Adelaar and van de Kerke 2009). Well then, with our knowledge of the available information, we are now in a position to formulate some basic premises concerning the Puquina language and culture. The following statements seek to organize some of the hypotheses we alluded to previously: (a) Territorially, the Puquina language covered an extensive geographical space, presumably near Lake Titicaca in the south-central Andes, attributed to the ethnic “Collas” in colonial documents, particularly in the chronicle of Sarmiento de Gamboa ([1572:37]: 1965:242); (b) it should come as no surprise that in such a vast territory the language presents a certain degree of dialectal fragmentation, of which, in the absence of further information, we can merely begin to form a vague idea; (c) in light of the lack of dialectal and comparative materials, it is not possible to reconstruct the ancestral language, and the most we can aspire to is a synchronic characterization such as may be inferred from the examination of its meager written record; (d) all the same, it is not too bold to assert that the focal point from which the language initially radiated was located in the northeast region of the Lake Titicaca basin; and (e) conceding the central Andean origin of Aymara, and considering the geographic overlap in the area attributed to

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the Collas and the territory attained by the civilization of Tiwanaku (Tiahuanaco), we are forced to conclude that the language of this “megalithic” empire was precisely Puquina.

Historical Correlations In this section we will postulate the languages of the Inkas and their ancestors throughout history. In accordance with the hypothesis that we will later develop, the rulers of Cuzco would have had as their native tongue, consecutively, Puquina, Aymara, and Quechua, in that order. These postulated language acquisitions and replacements, by virtue of which one language would have been substituted for another, with periods of bilingualism in between, would correspond to different moments in history traversed by the Inkas from the time of their ancestral origins, passing through their “Mythical period,” right up until becoming fully Historical figures. Thus, we assign the primordial Inkas, originating from the Lake Titicaca region, the Puquina language of the ancient Tiahuanacos; to the sovereigns of the Mythical period, the Aymara language, which was entrenched in the southern limits of the Cuzco region by the presence of the bearers of the Wari (Huari) civilization; and finally, to the Inkas of the Historical period, the Quechua language, which arrived at Cuzco’s threshold as a result of the Chanca invasion (see chapter 5, by Bauer and Smit). The historical correlations we suggest rely on evidence of a different nature, weighty and robust—quite the opposite of that of the existing linguistic postulations. To begin with Quechua: there is absolutely no question that the Inkas spoke this language at the time of the Spaniards’ arrival; second, however less obvious, it is equally true that the sovereigns of the Mythical period spoke Aymara, as we shall see below; and finally, the assertion that the founders of said dynasty spoke the Colla or Puquina language would seem pure speculation, considering the implicated historical distance, but all evidence appears to indicate that this was in fact the case, according to the data that we will also provide in due time. The Chinchaysuyo Quechua of the Inkas As we said earlier, no one disputes the fact that at the moment in which the Spaniards took over Tawantin-

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suyu (“Land of four parts,” the Quechua name for the Inka Empire), the “official” language of the empire was Quechua. Disseminated at that time as the administrative language, it constituted a veritable vehicular language that circulated throughout the confines of the territory, driven by a policy that made learning Quechua obligatory, even in places where it was unknown. The soldier-chronicler Pedro de Cieza de León, the “prince of the chroniclers,” exhaustively points out that entendido por ellos quán gran trabajo sería caminar por tierra tan larga y adonde a cada legua y a cada paso avía nueva lengua y que sería gran dificultad el entender a todos por yntérpretres [sic], escojendo lo más seguro ordenaron y mandaron, so graves penas que pusieron, que todos los naturales de su imperio entendiesen y supiesen la lengua del Cuzco generalmente, así ellos como sus mugeres, de tal manera que aún la criatura no oviese dexado el pecho de su madre quando le comensaçen a mostrar la lengua que avía de saber. (they understood what a great undertaking it would be to walk such an expansive territory and to places where at every league and every step there was a new language and that understanding all of them through interpreters would be of great difficulty. Choosing the path of least resistance, they ordered and mandated, under grave penalty, that all the natives of their empire learn and understand the general language of Cuzco, the men as well as the women, so that even before an infant was weaned from its mother’s breast, it would begin to be taught the mandatory language.) (Cieza de León [1551:XXIV] 1985:72)

A reading of the above passage requires at least three clarifications so that we may do justice to its full meaning. The first has to do with the extent to which the learning of the language was mandatory: according to what the respective sources indicate, said mandate applied only to the local ruling nobility and not necessarily to the entire people (Acosta [1588] 1954: IV, VIII, 517; Anonymous [1594] 2008:59). The second concerns the expression “language of Cuzco,” since by this we should understand not exactly the predecessor of the modern Cuzco variety but instead the one called “lengua general,” as it appears described by its first grammarian (Santo Tomás [1560] 1994a, 1994b), and in the same way as it emerges in the Quechua texts recorded by Betanzos ([1551] 1996), Cieza de León, and Pedro de Quiroga ([1569] 2009), among others. Finally, the third clarification touches upon a point—related to the diffusion of the language by the

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Inkas—which, though not explicitly expressed in the quoted passage, could lead us to incorrect conclusions, which is exactly what occurred in this case. We cannot lose sight of the fact that at the time when the sovereigns of Cuzco undertook the conquest of the provinces of Chinchaysuyu (northwestern part of Tawantinsuyu), particularly that of the peoples of the central Peruvian cordillera, the sole language spoken in these territories was none other than Quechua. Because of this, in the best of cases, the Inkas would have only propagated the language in the inter-Andean valleys of modern-day Bolivia, such as the valley of Cochabamba, or reinforced it, as occurred in the inter-Andean valley in Ecuador. Furthermore, as paradoxical as it may seem, it would be the Spaniards who would reinforce and even spread the language into spaces hardly touched by the Inkas, for strategic reasons of material and spiritual conquest. The Spaniards never tired of lauding the widespread use of the language, for this reason calling it “truly a general language.” Cieza himself, that untiring early traveler, makes this declaration, verifying as an eyewitness the ecumenical nature of the language: “I maintain that having this language was of great benefit to the Spaniards, since with it, they could travel anywhere” (Cieza de León [1551:XXIV] 1985:73). The chronicler Agustín de Zárate tells us the same thing, observing that “a Spaniard who knows the language of Cuzco can travel throughout Peru, on the plains and in the cordillera, understanding and being understood by the nobles” (Zárate [1555:VII] 1995: I, 39). We must now address two points of crucial importance to our purpose. First, there is the question of the dialectal affiliation of the Quechua used by the Inkas, and second, that of the chronology. To start with, when would the Inka royalty have spoken Quechua—if we admit that the language originates in the central Andes and not in Cuzco? In relation to this first question, we must point out that the variety of Quechua learned and used by the last Inkas was Chinchaysuyo, also called the “maritime” or coastal variety, and this is supported not only by the information recorded in the colonial sources1 but above all by the examination of the materials attributed to the lingua franca by early historians such as Betanzos and Pedro de Quiroga (Cerrón-Palomino 2013: III-12). In regards to the chronological aspect, the same documentary sources, particularly the “relaciones geográficas,” which tell about the peoples of the Ayacucho region in the south-central highlands of Peru, make a point of informing us that the learning

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of the language had been imposed by the last sovereigns only a short time before, as the informants could still recall. It is said, for example, of the “province of Vilcas Guaman” that in it was spoken “the general language they call ‘quíchua,’ which the Inka Guaynacapac ordered all the Indians of this kingdom to speak; though among them there are different languages, brought with them from wherever they originated and began” (Carabajal [1586] 1965:206). Therefore, we would be talking about approximately the second half of the fifteenth century, which is when the wars of conquest and the expansion toward the region later called Chinchaysuyu begin. What, then, would the Inkas have spoken before beginning their campaigns outside of Cuzco? Our next step is aimed precisely at answering this question. The Cuzco Aymara of the Inkas That the Cuzco region was immersed in Aymara territory until at least the time of the Inka ruler Pachacuti— and that, consequently, Cuzco’s sovereigns of the socalled Mythical dynasty spoke said language—is proven not only by certain properly linguistic indicators, but also by onomastic evidence, particularly toponymy. In terms of the linguistic proof, available starting only in the last decades of the past century, we call attention to the written record of an epic poem commissioned by Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui, after his triumph over the Soras in the south highlands of Peru, and collected by Betanzos, apparently not knowing that he was dealing with a text alien to Quechua (Betanzos [1551] 1996: I, XIX, 87). Linguists who have addressed the subject (Torero 1993; Cerrón-Palomino 1998) are in agreement, aside from a few discrepancies regarding the interpretation of some of its passages, that the language in which said hymn was written down is characteristically Aymara. I deal with this subject more extensively elsewhere (Cerrón-Palomino 2013: I-1, II-8). At this time, we believe it necessary to insist upon two points that we consider to be crucial. First, we must point out that the variety of Aymara underlying the text, and which we identify as belonging to the Cuzco region, although being similar to modern-day southern dialects, possessed unique attributes that no doubt gave it a local hallmark, somewhat akin to certain features that similarly singularized some of the songs gathered by Guaman Poma in the Lucanas region in the southcentral highlands of Peru ([1615] 1936:317). Second, we should emphasize the fact that the text under discus-

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sion, although succinct (it consists of only eight verses), far from being insignificant material, constitutes a hymn of triumph that immortalizes the heroic deed of a sovereign and, by consequence, has the value of an official document of the Inka royalty. If Quechua was the administrative language of the Inkas, and more specifically of Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui, would it not have been logical and normal that the epic poem be composed in said language? The orally transmitted chant, as well as the proper names discussed below, do reinforce the hypothesis of the Aymara-speaking Mythical Inkas advanced thus far. Despite the document’s evidentiary value, one might believe that a short and isolated text like this one could hardly allow us to infer the presence of the language in the Cuzco area, let alone its supposed official character. It so happens, however, that on the side of the documentary and linguistic information provided, we have evidence from onomastics, specifically the toponymy of the Cuzco area. In fact, it is not difficult to find, mixed in with the place-names of the region— and sometimes camouflaged as a result of their later Que­chuanization—toponyms clearly Aymara in origin firmly rooted in this territory. In regards only to what we call the major place-names, it will suffice to recall the name of the very capital, “Cuzco,” and of the famous fortress of “Ollantaytambo.” As we’ve shown in other places, «Cuzco» as well as the partial element «Ollantay» from the second toponym (Cerrón-Palomino 2008: II-7, II-8, respectively)—leaving aside the vain attempts to explain them using Quechua, from the times of the Inka Garcilaso de la Vega (1539–1616) until the present—can only be interpreted formally and semantically using Aymara, and even perhaps Puquina in the case of the former (see Cerrón-Palomino 2013: II-3). Referring only to Cuzco, how do we account for the fact that the future metropolis of the Inka Empire received a name with origins totally alien to Quechua? As in the case of the epic poem, whose linguistic affiliation permits us to postulate the official character of the language, here too, the mere fact of verifying the Aymara origin of the Cuzco metropolis leads us to the same postulation: the language belonging to Cuzco’s sovereigns of the Mythical dynasty was Aymara, not Quechua. We already know, however, that Aymara, like Quechua, originated in the central Andes. This means that at some point in their history the founders of the Cuzco dynasty must have learned the language; that is, they became

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Aymara speakers. That being so, what would have been the ancestral language of the eponymous figures? The answer to this inquiry will be presented in the following section. Puquina, or the “Particular Language” of the Inkas In this part of our consideration, we touch upon an exceedingly delicate subject, in that the evidence supporting it is fragmentary and dispersed in the linguistic terrain, and mythological and legendary in nature in the historical field. In both cases, the materials we will use are ones that are open to interpretation and, consequently, entirely controversial, if not polemic. In the following section we will attempt to link together the historical and the linguistic information, reversing the process we’ve followed up until now; that is, we will start with the mytho-historical data and conclude with the linguistic evidence. One of the versions of the origins and beginnings of the Inkas (one of many collected and recorded by the historian Cobo), described, like all of its variants, as fantastic and absurd, is that: desde la laguna de Titicaca vinieron hasta Pacarictambo, lugar distante del Cuzco siete leguas, ciertos indios llamados Incas, hombres de prudencia y valor, vestidos de muy diferente traje del que usaban los de la comarca del Cuzco, con las orejas horadadas y puestos pedazos de oro en los agujeros; y que el principal dellos, que se decía Manco Cápac, . . . envió delante sus mensajeros que hiciesen saber a los moradores dél, cómo era hijo del sol, y que si querían certificarse de ello, lo saliesen a ver, que él se les mostraría en un alto cerro de los que cercan aquel valle del Cuzco. (from the lagoon of Titicaca they came to Pacaritambo, a place seven leagues away from Cuzco, certain Indians called Incas, men of prudence and valor, dressed in clothes different from those used in the region of Cuzco, and their ears were pierced and gold pieces placed in the holes; and their leader, who was called Manco Capac, . . . sent forth his messengers that he may be made known to the residents, as he was the son of the Sun, and that if they wanted to be sure of it, that they come out and see him, that he would show himself on a high hill of those that border the valley of Cuzco.) (Cobo [1653: 3, 12] 1956:62)

Once we clear away the rhetorical adornments unique to oral narrative, we must emphasize at least

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four elements of the quoted passage that are of vital importance to our argument. The first has to do with the advent, from Lake Titicaca, of the future founders of the dynasty of rulers of the invaded region; the second is that the members of the entourage, beginning with its chief and guide, were supposedly called «incas»; third, the leader answered to the name of «Manco Capac»; and, finally, said chieftain, far from being a champion risen from the masses, was considered nothing less than the son of the Sun. Thus, if in an attempt to tie up the loose ends we left off in the sections on Puquina above, we make an effort to find a foundation of historical truth for the events alluded to in this quoted passage, having first stripped it of the mystical aura that envelops it, we will find ourselves in a position to be able to recover the historical and linguistic facts attributable to the Puquina-Colla people. To do this, we should begin as we announced earlier, taking a historical approach to the matter, with the “restoration” of the name Colla to its authentic representatives, rescuing it from its false secular attribution to the Aymara-speaking peoples. As studies relating to the history of the altiplano (the extensive high-plateau region around and to the south of Lake Titicaca) peoples and languages have maintained for the last decades ( Julien 1983: ch. 2; Bouysse-Cassagne 1987: I, 1988: I; Torero 1987:343–351; see also Bouysse-Cassagne 2011; Domínguez 2011; Cerrón-Palomino 2012), there can be no doubt that from now onward we should understand “Collas” to be Puquina-speaking people and not those who speak Aymara. Once we make this ethnic and idiomatic reassignment, it turns out that the people in question, often confused with the Uros and the Aymaras, cease to be mere specters and reclaim their full historicity. And so, going back to the origin myths, we can show that, despite any variations, they are all consistent regarding two of the aforementioned aspects: the lacustrine origins of the eponymous Inkas and the sun cult that they professed, both paramount attributes (is that what «colla-na» meant during the Inka period?), geographical and ideological in nature, respectively. Upon consideration of the other two mythical elements—the clan name «inca» and the proper name «Manco Capac»— traditionally assumed to be Quechua, we are obliged to clear up the linguistic dimension of the problem. In effect, thanks to the onomastic studies carried out in the last years, with the aim of remedying the scarcity of linguistic documentation regarding Puquina, today

Shimada_5545_03-pp3.indd 47

we are in a position to assert that not only names such as those mentioned but also a good part of the cultural and institutional lexicon attributed to the Inkas can be explained in form and content, once we discard Aymara and Quechua, as originating from a third idiomatic entity, which must be one and the same as the language of the ancient Collas (see Cerrón-Palomino 2013: I-4, I-5). Furthermore, all evidence seems to indicate that the “particular language” of the Cuzco royalty that Garcilaso spoke about ([1609] 1943: V, XIII, 111; VII, I, 166)—as well as other, even more reliable sources, such as Cantos de Andrada ([1586] 1965: 307)—would have been the language originating in the high plateau, namely, Puquina (Cerrón-Palomino 2013: I-2). Although it is true that until recently the identification of the language proved problematic, especially when the data used did not extend beyond the available documentary information (for example, Torero 2002: ch. 3, §3.6.8), now we believe, in light of the etymological examination of the cultural vocabulary from the Inka period, there is no basis by which to suggest that said language was Aymara. The institutional Inka lexicon— proper names («Roca» and its variant «Lloque») and appellatives («ayar», «inca», «capac») of the Mythical Inkas, of their divinities («titi», «inti»), and of their administrative («manco», «iqui», «tocri») and religious organization («quis», «raymi», «rayqa», «uiça»)—cannot be explained using Aymara, and even less so using Quechua. Words such as these, later remodeled within Aymara and Quechua, with phonetic adaptations and hybridizations to render them intelligible, thanks to etymological work, regain their original linguistic affiliation. Furthermore, as mentioned previously, part of Puquina’s lost lexicon can be found, surprisingly, in the pages of the monumental Aymara vocabulary by the Italian Jesuit Bertonio, which, at the same time, shows us just how Puquinized the Lupaca Aymara variety was, no doubt not unlike the rest of the altiplanic varieties, keeping in mind that the same thing occurred with Uro, as we can demonstrate in our Chipaya (spoken today in areas south of the Lake Titicaca) vocabulary (Cerrón-­Palomino and Ballón Aguirre 2011: §1.6). But we are not talking about just the fundamental lexicon of the Inka civilization, but also Puquina toponymy that, as our etymological investigation proceeds, not only reveals itself along the route of the Ayar in their march toward Cuzco («Pallata», «Yarambuy»), but also, at the same time, helps us trace out the area covered by

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the language at the time of its maximum diffusion as a vehicle of the Tiwanaku civilization. So, then, on the basis of the mythical-historical and linguistic picture sketched out thus far, it now seems completely logical to identify the Inkas’ ancestors as descendants of the ancient founders of Tiwanaku. Our next step is aimed at postulating the sociocultural and chronological context of the events outlined in the previous sections. Linguistic Periods and Contacts As we have pointed out in the previous sections, the Inkas and their ancestors would have experienced three processes of language acquisition and replacement: first, the founders of the dynasty, natives of the “lake of Poquina,” would naturally have had as their mother tongue the language of the region; later, once established in Cuzco territory, Aymara-speaking at the time, their mythical descendants, being a minority, would have become full Aymara speakers after a few generations; and, finally, following their triumph over the Chancas, the descendants of Pachacuti would have opted for the Quechua of Chincha as the linguistic vehicle for their future conquests. In the remaining section we will attempt to offer a chronology of these events, partly suggested already by the documentary and linguistic evidence we have presented, but this time also invoking information available from the field of archaeology. At this point, our discussion will follow the order of the aforementioned processes of language acquisition and replacement, attempting to associate them with the many sociopolitical and cultural events that occurred in the Late Intermediate Period. The Puquina Diaspora Scholars of the great lacustrine civilization of Tiwanaku are in agreement in indicating that the collapse of the state would have occurred sometime between the end of the tenth and the duration of the eleventh century, in the Late Intermediate Period, consequently giving rise to its disintegration, and perhaps followed by migrations toward the periphery of the ancient state (Pärssinen 2005:100). We postulate that one such migration would have been that of the ancestors of the Inkas, led by their chieftains (who received the appellatives

Shimada_5545_03-pp3.indd 48

«manco», «capac», and «iqui»), perhaps pressured by the great drought that ravaged the region (see Pärssinen 2005:100–101, and the references cited there), and in search of better lands that would ensure their survival. The mother tongue of these migrants, one of the two that were spoken in the lake region—Puquina and Uro—must have been a variety of the former, and, endowed with it, they would have arrived in the valley of Cuzco, at the time immersed in Aymara territory. Then, in accordance with the information collected by the first chroniclers of the sixteenth century, they would have gradually taken possession of the region, defeating the local rulers after a series of skirmishes, but also making alliances with some of them by means of strategic matrimonial ties, without disregarding factions that had emerged among the invaders themselves (see chapter 5, by Bauer and Smit). Because they were a minority group, it’s not difficult to imagine a scene in which, in the space of two or three generations at the most, deprived of all idiomatic feedback, they would have been forced to abandon their tongue in favor of Aymara, starting with their immediate descendants, who would acquire the language of the subjugated peoples on their mothers’ laps. Thus, with the language of the invading minority gone, all that would have remained of it would be a memory, reduced to certain turns of phrase and formulaic expressions, later reanalyzed and adapted to the local Aymara, which, in the opinion of any layperson, would be enough for them to be attributed to a “particular language” used exclusively by the conquering caste. Furthermore (Cerrón-Palomino 2013: §6.3), we have otherwise attempted to interpret the suggested contacts between the post-Tiwanaku peoples and those of the valley of Cuzco on the basis of archaeological work carried out in the latter region by Bauer (2008: ch. 8; see also Hiltunen and McEwan 2004:245–246; McEwan et al. 2005:266) and by Pärssinen (2005: ch. 6) in the Lake Titicaca region. This work leads Pärssinen to conclude that “the styles of pottery and architecture, as well as the mythology of the lacustrine rulers, influenced the ideology and style of Cuzco more than what has been believed until now. Furthermore, several buildings on the islands of the Sun and the Moon show traces of what was probably their pre-Inka origins, despite having been reutilized by the Inkas for their own purposes” (Pärssinen 2005:263; also see chapter

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17, by Pärssinen). Assuming these lacustrine leaders did speak Puquina, however, it soon would have been replaced by Aymara, which originated from the southern Andes following the debacle of Wari (Huari), and not imposed by Aymara rulers, despite what archaeologists have maintained since the times of Uhle (1910), oftentimes reluctant to enquire about new approaches in contemporary Andean linguistics (see, for example, Browman 1994; Stanish 2003). Aymara as the Language of Wari A polemic subject—on which it’s difficult to come to agreement not only among linguists themselves but also, and for all the more reason, among linguists and archaeologists—is the possible language attributable to the Wari (Huari) civilization. This should come as no surprise, considering that the postulated hypotheses do not have direct evidence and incontrovertible correlations to sustain them, be they linguistic, documentary, or least of all material in nature (see Isbell 1984 for an examination of these hypotheses). Thus, since the linguistic revolution in the Andean field in the late 1960s, two hypotheses have been tested concerning the language that possibly may have served as the vehicle of the Wari state. According to the first, this language would have been Aymara (Torero 1972:91–92; Hardman 1985:628), while according to the second, it would have been Quechua (Bird et al. 1984). Lately this debate has been revived, with the reconsideration of the Wari political entity as a propagator of Quechua (Beresford-Jones and Heggarty 2011; Heggarty and Beresford-Jones 2011, 2012; Isbell 2011), and even, beyond a unilingual language–society correlation, as a partially bilingual Aymara/Quechua civilization (Adelaar 2012). Incidentally, those who replace Aymara by Quechua as the language of the Wari state in turn postulate Aymara as the language of Chavín, which is a rather untenable position. While wishing to avoid entering into the aforementioned debate, we reaffirm our initial assertion, which we have supported (Cerrón-Palomino 2000: §7.3) in part with the hypothesis of Torero (see Torero 2002: §3.6.4 [127]). According to this argument, the southern branch of Proto-Aymara—originating from the southern coast, and established in the Ayacucho region (corresponding to the period of “Nascaization” spoken about by archaeologists)—would have become the

Shimada_5545_03-pp3.indd 49

vehicle of propagation of the powerful Wari state (in the middle of the Middle Horizon Period), which, in its projection toward the Andean southeast, would have made it as far as Cuzco; the formidable cities of Pikillacta and Choquepuqio serve as unmistakable testimony to Wari presence in the region (McEwan 2005). As a result of the political and administrative control exercised by the Wari society, the Cuzco territory would have ended up being Aymarized, erasing all traces of the local language spoken previously in the region. The collapse of Wari, which occurred around the same time as the disintegration of Tiwanaku (ca.  a.d. 1000), produced huge movements of peoples, who were pushed out by drastic climate changes that affected all of the southern Andes; this triggered migrations of Aymara-speaking peoples in the direction of the altiplano region but also, as we have seen, of PuquinaCollas in the opposite direction. These events would have taken place in the Late Intermediate Period (see Cerrón-Palomino 2011). Chinchaysuyo Quechua: The Third Language of the Inkas Assuming Aymara was the vehicle of Wari society in its expansion toward the southeast, the later diffusion of Southern Quechua, which displaced it in a southward movement, away from its original territory of propagation, remains to be explained. As we mentioned previously, the Chinchaysuyo origins of this variety, postulated on the basis of dialectal and onomastic evidence and further supported by the oral tradition collected by chroniclers, seem to be beyond doubt. It is useful then to investigate the impetus that made possible the diffusion of this variety from the Ayacucho region all the way to the outskirts of Cuzco. On this matter, we ground our hypothesis in the work of Torero (1974: §2.1), who in turn worked with the documentation on the inferred “merchants of Chincha” revealed by Rostworowski ([1970] 1989). We postulate that it was the lords of Chincha on the south-central coast who would have been responsible for propagating it as a variety detached from QIIB–C that developed apart in the Ayacucho region. The establishment of commercial routes, military incursions, and the attraction of the religious renown of Pachacamac would have been the driving forces that together propelled the process of Quechuanization of the Aymara-speaking peoples

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of the southeastern Andes, whose historicity, although fragmentary, has been proven by the oral tradition collected by the Spaniards (see Cerrón-Palomino 2013: III-13, §3.3). One such piece of news is provided by our soldier-chronicler Cieza de León, who tells us of the raids in the southern cordillera and the highlands by the Chinchas, who viéndose tan poderosos, en tiempo que los primeros Ingas entendían en la fundación de la ciudad del Cuzco, acordaron salir con sus armas a robar las prouincias de las sierras. Y assí dizen que lo pusieron por obra, y que hizieron gran daño en los Soras y Lucanes: y que llegaron hasta la gran provincia de Collao. De donde después de auer conseguido muchas victorias y auido grandes despojos, dieron la vuelta a su valle. (being as powerful as they were, at the time when the Inkas were occupied with the founding of the city of Cuzco, decided to go out with their arms to rob the provinces of the cordillera. And so they say that they carried it out, and that they did great damage to the Soras and the Lucanes; and that they arrived as far as the great province of Collao. From which, after having achieved many victories and plundered great spoils, they returned to their valley.) (Cieza de León [1553] 1984: lxxiiii, 219)

These events would have occurred in the Late Intermediate Period, after the collapse of Wari. As we know, early and reliable sources, among them Betanzos and Cieza (see chapters 2 and 14, by Salomon and Kaulicke, respectively), tell us of the existence of a veritable “confederation” led by the Chancas and made up of different “nations” (Astos, Angaraes, Chocorbos, Soras, and Lucanas) that would have subjugated Aymara-speaking peoples, among them those of the “Quechua nation,” of the high basin of the Pampas River (Garcilaso [1609] 1943: III, XII, 153), until checkmating the power of Cuzco, which had still not consolidated its dominion beyond the surroundings of its then-narrow territory (cf. chapter 5, by Bauer and Smit). The expansive wars initiated by Pachacuti toward what would later become Chinchaysuyu, following his victory over the Chancas, already Quechuanized or in the process of Quechuanization, would put the Cuzqueños (people of Cuzco) in intense and sustained contact with the new language, in contrast with the sporadic and indirect encounters of prior periods. You may recall that the epic poem attributed to Pachacuti, following his victory over the Sora people, had been composed in Aymara, until then the official language, but later—

Shimada_5545_03-pp3.indd 50

from the time of his successor, Tupac Inka Yupanqui, onward—it would be replaced in its function as the administrative language of the booming empire. Thus, the successors of the Inka conqueror, bilingual at first, would exchange their language for Quechua, remodeling it according to the articulatory habits unique to their native Aymara (hence the range of glottalized and aspirated consonants unique to the Cuzco dialect), to later propagate it. That said, it should come as no surprise that the proposed hypothesis has been questioned by some historians and archaeologists (Zuidema 1977:48; Duviols 1979:371; Santillana 2002; Bauer et al. 2010); for them, the model of diffusion we have outlined, based as it is on myths “disguised as history,” and lacking in material evidence, does not exceed pure academic conjecture and is devoid of all empirical reality. Nevertheless, in what concerns the linguistic aspect of the phenomenon: on the one hand, the incontrovertible coastal evidence of Southern Quechua is there; on the other hand, the documentary references concerning the invasion of the Chinchas and the Chancas in Cuzco and altiplano territory must have some basis in truth, pending confirmation. Furthermore, the absence of material evidence to support this correlation doesn’t necessarily indicate that such information does not exist, but rather that it has not been diligently sought by archaeologists, interested as they are in the discovery of more impressive, monumental remains. It is our conviction that, contrary to what some may argue (see chapter 5, by Bauer and Smit), mytho-historical accounts are not necessarily incompatible with the archaeological findings. Conclusion The preceding sections constitute an effort to integrate the contributions of linguistics into the general reflections on the prehistoric Andean past, which up until now were formed mainly on the bases of history and archaeology, despite appeals for interdisciplinary work. As we have aimed to point out, it is precisely this practice that is directly responsible for the persistence of incorrect preconceptions relative to the languages and peoples of the Andean region in such studies. Working from recent advancements in historical linguistics, on the one hand, and from the examination of the available Colonial-era documentation, on the other, we have aimed to offer a model of interpretation of the

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Inka past, particularly in regard to the linguistic history of Cuzco’s rulers, from their ancestors up through their Historical descendants. In this timeline, the Inkas would have passed through three successive linguistic experiences: Puquina-speakers in their Ancestral period, they would have become users of Aymara during the so-called Mythical period, and ended up as speakers of Quechua in the Historical period. Particularly decisive in favor of this proposal has been, thanks to the onomastic evidence provided, the identification of Puquina as the “secret language” of which the colonial sources speak. In regards to the archaeological contextualization we give, we maintain that there are spatial and chronological reasons that motivate us to postulate the sustained language acquisitions and replacements as a general frame for the sociopolitical and cultural event that occurred in the Late Intermediate and Late Horizon Periods. We are aware that the proposed correlations, as they concern Andean prehistory, leave a series of unresolved problems pending, due to, among other things, the fact that it is difficult, if not impossible, to match up the material evidence uncovered by archaeologists with the data obtained by linguists. In this sense, it goes without saying that this aspect of the present work, so inevitably polemic in nature, should be taken more as a suggestion than as a definitive approach. In the meantime, we hope that our call for the inclusion of the field of linguistics as a discipline committed to research in Andean prehistory may be taken into consideration once and for all.

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“Copacabana: ¿El nuevo Tiwanaku? Hacia una comprensión multidisciplinaria sobre las secuencias culturales post-tiwanacotas de Pacasa, Bolivia.” In Los Andes: Cincuenta años después. Homenaje a John Murra, ed. Ana María Lorandi et al., 229–280. Lima: PUCP. Caquiaviri y la provincia Pacasa. La Paz: CIMA.

Polo, José Toribio

1901

“Indios uros del Perú y Bolivia.” Boletín de la Sociedad Geográfica de Lima 10:445–482.

Quiroga, Pedro de

(1569) 2009  El indio dividido: Edición crítica y estudio de los Coloquios de la verdad de Pedro de Quiroga. Madrid: Iberoamericana/Vervuert. Rostworowski, María

(1970) 1989  “Mercaderes del valle de Chincha en la época prehispánica: Un documento y unos comentarios.” In Costa peruana prehispánica, 213–238. Lima: IEP. Santillana, Julián I.

2002 “Chancas e incas: Un nuevo examen.” In El Hombre y los Andes. Homenaje a Franklin Pease G.Y., ed. Javier Flores Espinoza and Rafael Varón Gabai, 2:553–566. Lima: PUCP. Santo Tomás, Domingo de

(1560) 1994a  Grammatica de la lengua general del Peru. Ed. Rodolfo Cerrón-Palomino. Madrid: Ediciones de Cultura Hispánica. (1560) 1994b  Lexicon o vocabulario de la lengua general del Peru. Ed. Rodolfo Cerrón-Palomino. Madrid: Ediciones de Cultura Hispánica.

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Sarmiento de Gamboa, Pedro

(1572) 1965  Historia índica. In Obras completas del Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, 195–279. BAE 135. Madrid: Atlas. Stanish, Charles

2003

Ancient Titicaca: The Evolution of Complex Society in Southern Peru and Northern Bolivia. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Toledo, Francisco de

(1575) 1989  Disposiciones gubernativas para el virreinato del Perú. Seville: Escuela de Estudios Hispanoamericanos de Sevilla. Torero, Alfredo

“Los dialectos quechuas.” Anales Científicos de la Universidad Agraria 2:446–478. 1968 “Procedencia geográfica de los dialectos quechuas de Ferreñafe y Cajamarca.” Anales Científicos de la Universidad Agraria 3–4:291–316. 1972 “Lingüística e historia de la sociedad andina.” In El reto del multilingüismo en el Perú, ed. Alberto Escobar, 51–106. Lima: IEP. 1974 El quechua y la historia social andina. Lima: Universidad Ricardo Palma. 1987 “Lenguas y pueblos altiplánicos en torno al siglo XVI.” Revista Andina 10:329–405. 1993 “El idioma particular de los incas.” In Estudios de lengua y cultura amerindias I, ed. Julio Calvo Pérez, 231–240. Valencia: Universidad de Valencia. 2002 Idiomas de los Andes: Lingüística e historia. Lima: IFEA/ Horizonte. 1964

Uhle, Max

1910

“La posición histórica de los aymaras en el antiguo Perú.” Boletín de la Oficina Nacional de Estadística (La Paz) 6 (58–60): 350–356.

Zárate, Agustín de

1555 [1995]  Historia del descubrimiento y conquista del Perú. Lima: PUCP. Zuidema, Tom R.

1977

“Mito e historia en el antiguo Perú.” Allpanchik 10:15–52.

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CHAPTER 4

Tracing the Origin of Inka People through Ancient DNA Analysis Ken-ichi Shinoda

Traces of the evolution and migration of hominids are found in human DNA. Recent technological advances in DNA analysis have enabled the interpretation of such traces, stimulating marked innovation in research in physical anthropology, a field that had long relied heavily on fossil-based evidence. However, the hypotheses pertaining to human evolution formulated from DNA analysis have often contradicted conventional theories, causing some large-scale disputes (Fagan 1990). Notwithstanding all this, awareness has gradually spread that conclusions drawn from DNA analysis have the potential to contribute greatly to advancing research in this field. All studies on the origin and migration of humankind conducted during approximately the last two decades took into account the results of DNA analysis. The conclusions drawn from DNA research have prompted review of prevailing conceptions and stimulated the formulation of new theories. In this way, a new scenario is being formulated about the history of group formation in various parts of the world. Regarding the origin and establishment of the Inka, pertinent research has been conducted in ethnohistory, linguistics (see chapter 3, by Cerrón-Palomino), and archaeology (see chapters 5 and 15, by Bauer and Smit, and Pärssinen, respectively). To date, diverse opinions on this topic have been put forth, but there is no consensus. This chapter will approach the topic from the perspective of physical anthropology, making use of DNA analysis. Analysis of DNA sequences became possible around 1980. At that time, mitochondrial DNA (mtDNA) was selected for analysis. The mitochondrion is an organelle involved in energy formation in the cytoplasm of most cells. It possesses unique DNA that is different from nuclear DNA. Mitochondrial DNA is very compact. The entire base sequence of human mitochon-

Shimada_5545_04-pp3.indd 55

drial DNA (full length: 16,569 nucleobases [or simply “bases”]) was identified in 1981 (Anderson et al. 1981). Because mitochondrial DNA is inherited in a specific manner (passed from mother to child without undergoing recombination), the mutations seen supply information on the migration of females. Furthermore, since mitochondrial DNA is more likely than nuclear DNA to undergo mutation and each cell has a number of mitochondrial DNAs, it is highly probable that such genetic information can be extracted, even from ancient samples that may have suffered degradation. These advantages are why mitochondrial DNA is often selected for analysis in studies on the origin or migration of humans. Research on the diversity of mitochondrial DNA began in the 1980s through analysis of the DNA digestion pattern by “restriction enzymes” (enzymes that recognize and digest a sequence of several bases in DNA). In the 1990s, research shifted focus, turning to the analysis of the sequence of a frequently mutating region (called the “D-loop region” of mitochondrial DNA). In the twenty-first century, researchers have concentrated on the analysis of the entire base sequence of mitochondrial DNA. During the course of human migration across the world, mutations created—one after another—new types of mitochondrial DNA. From these types, further new types were derived. All of these successively created types are collectively treated as constituting a single lineage, or “haplogroup.” Relationships within and between haplogroups supply important information for reproducing the human migration scenario (Kivisild et al. 2002). Currently, DNA-based studies discuss the origin of a given population through comparison of its haplogroup composition with those of neighboring populations. This approach has led to more detailed

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56  KEN-ICHI SHINODA

data collection, which, in turn, has yielded more sophisticated scenarios about human migration. Origin of the Indigenous Populations of the New World Inferred from mtDNA Analysis Research on mtDNA diversity among Native Americans also started in the 1980s, earlier than similar research on other populations of the world. Preliminary experiments using restriction enzymes revealed four haplogroups (A, B, C, and D) among Native Americans. Similar research in Asian populations revealed the presence of these same four haplogroups and thus demonstrated through DNA analysis that Native Americans originated in Asia. However, since other haplogroups were found among Asians, it was suggested that only a portion of their population migrated to the New World (Torroni et al. 1993). In a subsequent study, a fifth haplogroup (X) was discovered among indigenous people in North America (Forster et al. 1996). This haplogroup was also found in populations living in areas from Central Asia through Europe, suggesting that it was brought to America from Europe after the arrival in the New World of Columbus. However, upon detailed investigation of mutations, the haplogroup in European people was found to belong to a subgroup different from that found in native North Americans, which refuted the earlier idea that this haplogroup originated with Europeans (Reidla et al. 2003). The same haplogroup was also found in the bones of ancient indigenous people who lived in North America before Columbus’s discovery, providing direct evidence for the validity of the non-European-origin theory. To date, however, haplogroup X has not been detected in indigenes in South America. There are still unresolved questions about the origin of this haplogroup, which is found only in indigenous North American people, unlike the other four haplogroups distributed widely across North and South America. In the twenty-first century, a genealogical tree was prepared from all the base sequences of mitochondrial DNA collected from worldwide populations, and the lineages of mitochondrial DNA possessed by inhabitants of the New World were reorganized. As a result, the conventional lineage classification was revised to reflect the more sophisticated data and the addition of some new lineages (Tamm et al. 2007).

Shimada_5545_04-pp3.indd 56

Additionally, further advances in research revealed the presence of two specific lineages among Eskimos and Aleuts living in the northernmost region. These two lineages probably entered this region from Siberia in later years. At present, there are nine known DNA lineages for Native Americans (Achilli et al. 2008). Among indigenous people of the Kamchatka Peninsula (far eastern Russia) and environs, new lineages probably brought to Siberia from the New World have been discovered. Thus, as mtDNA-lineage analysis has advanced, a more detailed scenario of humankind’s migration has been presented. Studies on mtDNA lineages have resulted in the proposed “three-step colonization model” (Kitchen et al. 2008). According to this model, for thousands of years the ancestral population of Native Americans was isolated in the region known as Beringia (the land bridge that joined present-day Alaska and eastern Siberia at different times during the Pleistocene but that is now submerged under the Bering Strait). Their descendants entered the North American continent about sixteen thousand years ago and rapidly migrated across North and South America. All recently published studies of the lineages of Native Americans based on mitochondrial DNA have supported this interpretation (Fagundes et al. 2008; Mulligan et al. 2008). Thus, the three-step colonization model has been increasingly accepted as the consensus view in the field of DNA research. The size of the initial population has also been estimated through DNA analysis. It has been suggested that the isolated population was composed of about ten thousand individuals and comprised fewer than five thousand individuals when it entered the New World, although population numbers later increased in an explosive manner (Kitchen et al. 2008). However, to confirm the validity of this hypothesis, excavation of the sea bottom in the Bering Strait is needed; it is difficult at present to demonstrate agreement between this theory and the available archaeological evidence. It remains unknown which part of Asia was the origin for the ancestral population of Native Americans. In the twenty-first century, advances in DNA analysis have allowed for the characterization of indigenous peoples in various parts of South America. As far as the initial migration of populations across the continent, it has been estimated that it took place rapidly, probably mainly following the Pacific coastal route (Bodner et al. 2012), but there is no widely accepted view applicable

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TRACING THE ORIGIN OF INKA PEOPLE THROUGH ANCIENT DNA ANALYSIS  57

to the entire continent with regard to the routes, timing, or other details. Genetic Characteristics of Native Americans The origin of the indigenous peoples widely distributed at present in North and South America can be found in the single ancestral population living in Beringia about twenty thousand years ago. The genetic diversity possessed by Native Americans on the whole is known to be much smaller than that of people in other regions. It has been shown, however, that the genetic differences among the multiple groups constituting Native Americans are greater than the differences among the multiple indigenous groups of the Old World (Wang et al. 2007). This finding indicates that, after initial migration, the populations that colonized each region of the New World did not undergo close genetic exchange. Each population remained independent for many years. Under these circumstances, phenomena such as “genetic drift” (accidental change in the frequency of genes within a small-sized population) and “bottleneck” (loss of gene diversity due to a temporary decrease in the number of individuals) resulted in the acquisition of specific gene structures within each population, prob-

Figure 4.1. Distribution of mtDNA haplogroup frequencies across North and South America. (Prepared by K. Shinoda. MtDNA frequency data for North and Central Americas cited from Kemp and Schurr 2010; data of South America taken from various previous papers [Baillet et al. 1994; Ginther et al. 1993; Horai et al. 1993; Lewis et al. 2004; Merriwether et al. 1995; RodriguezDelfin et al. 2001; Torroni et al. 1993])

Shimada_5545_04-pp3.indd 57

ably leading to marked differences in genetic composition compared to that of other populations. Figure 4.1 graphically represents the frequency of mtDNA haplogroups in the populations of North and South America. It illustrates large regional variances. Because these differences reflect the history of individual populations, interpreting the variations correctly should enable that history to be reconstructed. To date, a complete reconstruction has not been achieved, but efforts to piece it together by deciphering the mitochondrial DNA of these populations, including that derived from ancient human bones, are ongoing. Inka DNA There are unresolved questions about the origin and formation of the Inka Empire, established in the Andes after a rapid increase in power during the fifteenth century. The genesis myths of the Inka tribe, recorded by Spanish conquerors, give hints about the origin of this population. These Inka origin myths are composed of several different stories. One version refers to various places, such as Lake Titicaca and Tiwanaku, that are located in the Titicaca basin, which saddles southern Peru and the highlands of northwestern Bolivia. Some investigators believe, therefore, that the Inka tribe originated in this area. According to another myth, however, the founders of the Inka tribe emerged from a cave at Pacaritambo, located southeast of Cuzco. Thus, we can consider two places, the Titicaca basin and the vicinity of Cuzco, as the possible origins of the Inka tribe (see chapter 3, by Cerrón-Palomino). There are limitations to determining origin from myths (see chapter 5, by Bauer and Smit). There is no clear consensus at present, even among the results of archaeological investigations that have the potential to empirically elucidate the origins. While many of the pertinent archaeological studies support the Titicaca basin hypothesis, there are a few others that support the notion of the Inka origin being much closer to Cuzco. As stated above, the genetic diversity of indigenous people in North and South America is small on the whole, but there are large genetic differences among multiple populations living in different regions of North and South America. These characteristics make the collection and use of genetic information invaluable with regard to understanding the origin and formation of regional populations and the relationship of a given

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58  KEN-ICHI SHINODA

population to surrounding populations. Jointly with the Cuzco Institute of Culture and the Centro Mall­ qui Research Institute, we carried out new analyses of the DNA extracted from pre-Inka and Inka-age human bones or teeth excavated from the sites of Sacsayhuaman (within the city of Cuzco), Machu Picchu and surrounding areas, Lake Condor in Chachapoya (in northeastern Peru), and Molino-Chilacachi in Puno (Titicaca basin). With the aim of elucidating the origin of the Inka tribe, we compared the findings with the DNA of populations dating to different time periods, which had been collected earlier from multiple regions of the Andes. Comparison of DNA in Populations in Cuzco and in the Surrounding Regions Sacsayhuaman (fig. 4.2) is located atop a hill overlooking Cuzco. The human bones excavated from this area have been considered to be those of urban inhabitants who lived in the capital. Most of the human bones excavated from the sites in the vicinity of Machu Picchu, on the other hand, are considered to be those of local farmers.1 Figure 4.3 shows the sites in the vicinity of Machu Picchu that were included in the analysis, and the results are summarized in table 4.1. Of the fifty-one human teeth samples excavated from Sacsayhuaman, twenty (39.2 percent) yielded DNA data. This DNA-recovery rate was not high compared to the usual rate (over 50 percent) reported for ancient human samples. Among these samples, eighteen different types of maternal lineage were identified. The finding of numerous maternal lineages indicates that the tomb was not confined to any specific maternal line but was instead a burial place for people without local blood relations. Given that radiocarbon dating of seventeen samples from this excavation revealed dates ranging from the period of the Inka Empire to the early Colonial era (table 4.2), it appears that the cemetery contained at least some early colonial burials. Of the eighty-eight human teeth samples excavated from the sites at Machu Picchu Park, seventy-three allowed DNA analysis. The largest site analyzed in this study was Patallacta (figs. 4.3 and 4.4). Of seventyone samples of human remains from this site, DNA data were collected from sixty-three (88.7 percent). This high DNA-recovery rate, as compared to that of the Sacsayhuaman samples, which date to roughly the same period, is probably attributable to the manner of

Shimada_5545_04-pp3.indd 58

Figure 4.2. Satellite image of Sacsayhuaman. (From Google Earth, DigitalGlobe, 2012)

Figure 4.3. Map of Machu Picchu and other archaeological sites in the “Sacred Valley of the Inkas” (Urubamba valley). Solid circles indicate archaeological sites from which samples analyzed in this study come. (Prepared by K. Shinoda)

Figure 4.4. Satellite image of Patallacta. (From Google Earth, DigitalGlobe, 2013)

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TRACING THE ORIGIN OF INKA PEOPLE THROUGH ANCIENT DNA ANALYSIS  59

Table 4.1. Results of mtDNA Analysis of the Cuzco and Machu Picchu Regions

Site

No. of Samples

Patallacta

No. of Haplotypes

A

Haplogroups and Their Frequencies B C D

References

63

30

3

45

5

10

Present study

17

14

0

13

3

1

Shinoda et al. 2004

Paucarcancha

16

13

3

10

3

0

Shinoda et al. 2004

Sala Punk

7

7

1

5

1

0

Present study

Willcaracay

1

1

0

1

0

0

Present study

Machu Picchu

2

1

0

2

0

0

Present study

Sum of local population

106

47*

Huata (Formative)

14

Cusco (Sacsayhuaman)

20

11 18

7

76

12

11

6.6%

71.7%

11.3%

10.4%

3

3

4

4

21.4%

21.4%

28.6%

28.6%

6

10

0

4

30%

30%

0%

20%

Present study and Shinoda et al. 2004

Present study

Prepared by K. Shinoda. *Because of the differences between the analytical portion of the present study and the former one (Shinoda et al. 2006), the numbers of the haplotypes are not consistent with the sum of these numbers.

Table 4.2. AMS Dates of Samples Excavated at Each Site Site (No. of Samples Dated)

C age (BP)

14

Calibrated age (cal a.d./b.c.*)

Sacsayhuaman (17)  Old

738±126

1030–1430 cal a.d.

 Young

370±61

1450–1645 cal a.d.

 Old

694±34

1260–1390 cal a.d.

 Young

589±36

1300–1415 cal a.d.

 Old

2540±29

790–595 cal b.c.

 Young

2073±28

180–0 cal b.c.

Molino-Chilacachi (1)

433±33

1420–1615 cal a.d.

 Old

824±37

1060–1275 cal a.d.

 Young

312±37

1475–1650 cal a.d.

Patallacta (4)

Huata (17)

Chachapoyas (11)

BP = before present *Confidence limit 95 percent (2 standard deviation values). In the case of multiple dated samples, oldest and youngest dates are shown (Mai Takigami and Minoru Yoneda, pers. comm. 2011).

Shimada_5545_04-pp3.indd 59

burial adopted at Patallacta, where remains were placed in protected caves. It seems that caves are a more favorable burial site from the viewpoint of DNA preservation than open-air sites (Fehren-Schmitz et al. 2011). All the human samples analyzed were collected during fieldwork conducted by the Cuzco Institute of Culture after 1990. The Patallacta human bones were collected from six caves closely spaced on the rocky slopes overlooking the site. The chronology of these caves was determined by the design of associated burial goods (particularly diagnostic ceramics) and AMS (accelerator mass spectrometry) dating of excavated skeletons (table 4.2 and figs. 4.4, 4.5, and 4.6). The dates of interment for these burials are estimated to be in the Inka period. All burials found within them had a similar form: the bodies were tightly flexed and bundled in cloth. Although it had been thought that each cave served as a cemetery for a blood-related group, twenty lineages of mitochondrial DNA were identified from the forty-three individual samples from the largest (and third) cave. At Patallacta, a total of thirty lineages were identified from sixty-three samples; the number of individuals belonging to the same lineage was greater here than at Sacsayhuaman, although no particular lineage dominated. In the overall evaluation of the findings from multi-

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60  KEN-ICHI SHINODA

Figure 4.5. Burial 8, excavated inside a cave in the Casamintuyoq sector of Patallacta. (Photo courtesy Elba Torres)

Figure 4.6. Diagnostic provincial Inka-style plate that accompanied burial 3, excavated inside a cave in the Casamintuyoq sector of Patallacta. (Photo courtesy Elba Torres)

ple sites in this region, we found the same type of mitochondrial DNA at multiple sites. These findings allow us to infer that in this region marriage practices adopted a form of female migration. If this marriage practice is repeated within a secluded population, the diversity of mitochondrial DNA usually decreases markedly. In the present analysis, no particular lineage was overwhelming. This result suggests that the sphere from which marriage partners (i.e., females) derived was relatively wide. The Patallacta site and others in the vicinity of Machu Picchu were also investigated by Hiram Bingham, who “discovered” Machu Picchu in 1911 and worked there through 1915. During that survey tour, hundreds of human bones and mummies were collected from eight sites close to each other. After analysis, these human bones were finally, and just recently, returned to the National Museum of Anthropology and Archaeology of Peru by Yale University. Our group investigated these human bones in 2002 and 2003 (Shinoda et al. 2006). This chapter will cover the findings from that survey as well.

seen in the rural population, was more frequent in the Cuzco group. Since the samples collected at Sacsayhuaman probably included bones from the early Colonial period (as described above), we cannot rule out the possibility that the observed difference between populations from urban and rural areas actually represents a chronological difference. It seems more rational to consider, however, that the observed difference in the DNA composition reflects more active migration of people in the urban area. In the case of the Inka, a population-­ relocation policy called mitimaq, or mitmaqkuna, had been adopted (see chapter 7, by D’Altroy). It therefore seems probable that the people buried in this tomb included workers who specialized in the construction of stone buildings and who had migrated from other regions, guard soldiers who were stationed in this area, and so on. This may have affected the composition of DNA in these two areas. Furthermore, evidence of dietary style, as indicated by carbon and nitrogen stable isotopic analysis of the human bones, suggests the possibility that the population at Sacsayhuaman was composed of people of different geographic origins (M. Takigami and M. Yoneda, pers. comm. 2011). For that reason, it seems likely that the original DNA characteristics possessed by the Inka tribe are reflected more faithfully in the DNA composition of the surrounding rural population than in that of the urban population in this area. Huata (fig. 4.7) is a site along the Urubamba River in the eastern part of the Cuzco basin. The Huata site was utilized for burial from the Formative Period to the

Comparison of DNA between Populations in Urban and Rural Areas When mitochondrial DNA of the Cuzco (Sacsayhuaman) and Machu Picchu populations was compared, haplogroup B was found to be predominant in both, although their respective compositions differed slightly (see table 4.1). Haplogroup A, which was seldom

Shimada_5545_04-pp3.indd 60

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TRACING THE ORIGIN OF INKA PEOPLE THROUGH ANCIENT DNA ANALYSIS  61

age of the Inka. Radiocarbon dating of human bones excavated from this site has shown that they date mostly to the Formative Period (see table 4.2). Analysis of the DNA composition of these bones enables genetic characterization of the pre-Inka population in the Cuzco region. Unfortunately, the total number of human bones from Huata analyzed to date is not large enough (fourteen samples) to allow us to draw any definitive conclusions. However, DNA composition differed markedly between the samples dating to the pre-Inka and those dating to the Inka periods. During the Formative Period, haplogroup B was not predominant and haplogroups C and D showed high proportions of occurrence. This suggests that the populations living at Huata during the pre-Inka age were different from the subsequent occupying population(s). The genetic composition of a given population, however, can change over time under the influence of various factors. These factors include inflow of other populations, changes in the geographical and/or social spheres from which marriage partners are derived, temporary decrease in population due to war or epidemic and its subsequent recovery, and so on. To identify the cause for such a change in DNA composition over time in Cuzco and the surrounding areas, analysis encompassing the entire Andes population would be needed.

Table 4.3. Frequency Distribution of mtDNA Haplogroups Identified in the Samples Derived from the Sites of Lake Condor and Molino-Chilacachi Number of Site Lake Condor

Number Haplotypes 35

16

13

11

(Chachapoyas) Molino-

Haplogroup A

B

C

D

9

11

9

6

25.7% 31.4% 25.7%

Chilacachi

0 0%

11

2

84.6% 15.4%

17.1% 0 0%

(Puno)

Prepared by K. Shinoda.

Genetic Relationship between the Inka and the Surrounding Populations

Figure 4.7. Site of Huata. (Photo taken by K. Shinoda)

DNA composition can be compared interregionally to explore the relationship between the Inka population and contemporaneous populations in other regions. Since DNA data from the Inka age are quite limited, we have also included data from the preceding time period, which spanned the tenth to the fourteenth centuries. Our comparison covers the published DNA data on human bones from a site of the Sicán in the Lambayeque region of the northern coast (Shimada et al. 2004), Wari sites in Arequipa (Kemp et al. 2009), and Chiribayan sites in the Moquegua region on the southern coast (Shinoda et al. 2010). Additionally, the comparison includes data from samples from two sites that were recently analyzed: Lake Condor in Chachapoya in northeastern Peru and the Inka-age Molino-Chilacachi site, located in the suburbs of Puno. The data from individual sites are given in table 4.3. A cluster analysis of the frequency of mtDNA haplogroups (fig. 4.8) graphically represents the genetic

Figure 4.8. Phylogenetic relationship among seven ancient Andean populations, as determined by neighbor-joining using FST values based on haplogroup frequencies. (Prepared by K. Shinoda)

Shimada_5545_04-pp3.indd 61

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62  KEN-ICHI SHINODA

relationship among populations. Results of the analysis indicate that the ancient Andean population can be roughly divided into two groups. One is the southern highlands/altiplano group, encompassing the population in and around Machu Picchu and the population in Puno. If the rural population preserved the original gene composition of the Inka tribe more faithfully, as suggested above, we may argue that Inka people were closely genetically related to this southern highlands/ altiplano population. The other group comprises populations in northern Peru and on the coast of southern Peru. This group encompasses a very large region and does not have a high degree of genetic homogeneity; thus, we cannot rule out the possibility that it is made up of multiple, genetically inconsistent groups. What is significant, however, is that these regional populations individually and collectively differed strikingly in their genetic characteristics from the southern mountainous populations. Interestingly, our analysis revealed that the Cuzco (Sacsayhuaman) population is genetically closer to the northern Peru–south coastal Peru group than to the southern highlands/altiplano cluster. This result suggests the possibility that the urban population at Cuzco underwent changes in its composition under the genetic influence of people from other regions and/or that it included relocated individuals (mitimaes) from northern Peru and/or south coastal Peru. Genetic Relationship between the Inka People and the Current Population To expand the scope of comparison to include the current population, we used principal component analysis to determine haplogroup frequency in the above-listed seven ancient populations and in present-day indigenes from ten different regions in the Andes (Bert et al. 2001; Fuselli et al. 2003; Lewis et al. 2007; Merriwether et al. 1995). This statistical technique aims to reveal the internal structure of multivariate data in a way that best explains variance; it involves the summarization of correlating parameters to explain overall changes on the basis of a small number of variables. The results of the data calculations using this technique are graphically represented in figure 4.9. Of the overall information, about 65 percent is integrated along the axis of the first principal component (PC1) and about 27 percent along the axis of the second principal component (PC2). Thus, approximately 92 per-

Shimada_5545_04-pp3.indd 62

Table 4.4. Result of Principal Component Analysis of Seventeen Andean Populations Eigenvector of Each Haplogroup Component

A

B

C

D

Eigen Value

Contribution

1st

0.572 – 0.115 – 0.664 0.467

2.599

65.0%

2nd

– 0.559 – 0.411 0.092 0.714

1.094

27.4%

Figure 4.9. Plot of PC1 and PC2 scores of ancient and modern Andean populations. (Prepared by K. Shinoda)

cent of all information (table 4.4) is two-dimensionally accounted for in figure 4.9. Judging from the value of the eigenvector (see table 4.4), axis 1 indicates the percentage of haplogroup B relative to haplogroups A, C, and D, while axis 2 indicates the percentage of haplogroup D relative to haplogroups A and B. As the value of axis 1 increases (the groups located on the left), the percentage of haplogroup B increases and the other haplogroups have lower percentages. As the value of axis 2 increases (groups located in the upper part), the percentages of haplogroups A and B become lower in comparison with that of haplogroup D. The arrangement of groups along axis 1 reflects the geographic relationship among groups (mountainous regions vs. coastal regions, roughly speaking). We may therefore state that the Andean population is characterized by (1) a lower percentage of haplogroups A and D in the southern highland/altiplano regions than in the northern coastal regions and (2) a tendency toward a higher percentage of haplogroup B in the southern highland/altiplano regions. To cite

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an additional finding, the Wari people are positioned just in the middle of axis 1, similar to the position of the present-day Ancash people, who live somewhat farther north. The Wari culture, which flourished during the Middle Horizon before the rise of the Inka, was previously thought to be undifferentiated from that of the Tiwanaku, which flourished during much the same time in the Titicaca basin. To this day, some scholars consider the Wari culture to have been established under the influence of the Tiwanaku culture sometime in the late sixth or early seventh century. Results from the present study, however, suggest that these two cultures, from the perspective of genetic composition, represent totally different populations (see chapter 3, by Cerrón-Palomino). Figure 4.9 further indicates that, excluding several exceptions, both the present-day and the ancient populations can be viewed as a regional population with approximately identical characteristics. In our analysis, the population was roughly divided into three regions of the Andes (southern highland/altiplano, northern highland, and north coastal). In each region, the ancient population (particularly late pre-Hispanic groups such as the Wari and the Sicán) was similar in genetic composition to the present-day population. The population in and around Machu Picchu was shown to have DNA similar to that of the present-day altiplano population (i.e., the Bolivian Aymara population). Also in this comparison, the Cuzco population emerged as an exception in that it was beyond the range of the southern highland/altiplano population in terms of DNA composition. As stated above, the present-day regional populations preserve the approximate genetic composition of late pre-Hispanic populations. However, the Chiribaya culture in the southern coastal region has undergone dramatic changes in genetic composition under the influence of populations from the southern highland/ altiplano region from the Inka age through the Colonial period (Shinoda et al. 2010). We may state that, although DNA composition changed little in the heavily populated (north coastal, southern highlands/altiplano, etc.) regions where primary states have flourished since ancient times, the populations in the surrounding areas occasionally underwent changes in DNA composition under the influence of groups from other regions. As illustrated above, while on the whole genetic diversity is low among indigenous people of the New World, a high level of differentiation within regional

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populations took place. This tendency has been confirmed for the Andean region in the present study. For more than four thousand years, the ancient Andean civilizations repeated cycles of rise and fall in this region. Despite the fact that during some periods a powerful culture emerged and integrated much of the region, the genetic composition of the inhabitants in each area did not undergo marked change. The Origin of the Inka Tribe: The DNA Evidence As described above, the DNA of the Inka people resembles that of the population around Lake Titicaca and the adjacent altiplano. This seems to indicate that the Inka tribe derived from the altiplano population. In this sense, we may argue that the myth of the Inka originating from the region around Lake Titicaca may well hold some truth. It calls attention to the fact that the present study yielded a conclusion identical to the theory proposed by Cerrón-Palomino, on linguistic bases, that the Inkas were Puquina speakers who originated from the south shore of Lake Titicaca (see chapter 3, by Cerrón-­ Palomino). Pärssinen, an archaeologist, proposes a similar theory on the basis of the results of recent excavations on the island of Pariti near the south shore of Lake Titicaca (see chapter 15, by Pärssinen). It seems likely that people with a genetic composition different from that of the Inkas lived at the Huata site, in the suburbs of Cuzco, during the Formative Period. This difference can be explained if we postulate that the Inka migrated into the Cuzco area from the altiplano farther southeast sometime after the Formative period. Considering that the genetic composition found in the remains at the Huata site was closer to that found in the remains of populations from the central highland of Peru (i.e., the Wari and the Ancash), it seems likely that Cuzco and surrounding areas were originally inhabited by people with a genetic affinity to those in the central highland region prior to the influx and subsequent expansion of altiplano people. With regard to the demographic history of the Cuzco area, it is worth noting that the DNA composition of urban inhabitants of Cuzco (i.e., those buried at Sacsayhuaman) differs from that of residents of sites in and around Machu Picchu. We previously referred to the possibility that the Cuzco urban genetic composition was affected by the inclusion of some mitimaes

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(who were transplanted by the Inka state). In this connection, we cannot rule out the possibility that during the long pre-Inka era there were influxes of people into the Cuzco area from non-altiplano regions of Peru, allowing for the establishment of a unique population within what became urban Cuzco (the Cuzco basin; see chapter 5, by Bauer and Smit). If the Inka developed from such a population, we can conclude that the myth suggesting their source to be Pacaritambo, in the vicinity of Cuzco, refers to the origin of relatively recent ancestors, while the myth and the hypothesis postulating altiplano origin pertain to ancient ancestors. To resolve this question, detailed analysis of human bones excavated from other pre-Inka and Inka sites in and around Cuzco is needed. Conclusion In a short period of time, the Inkas established a large empire governing much of the extensive Andean region. It appears that the governing principles of their empire contained a mechanism (i.e., mitimaq) that could have led to modification of the genetic composition of people constituting the empire. When a single regional population establishes an extensive empire with a multiethnic and multicultural composition, inevitably there is bilateral interaction between the dominant and the subject populations; they affect each other culturally and genetically by such means as acculturation, indoctrination, and marriage. It seems probable, however, that the Inka royal family—with its persistent practice of endogamy, as related by Betanzos ([1551] 1996) and others—would have been able to retain much of the original DNA of the ancestral Inka tribe. After the collapse of the Inka Empire, the Andes entered the Colonial period. During this period, genetic exchange between the Spanish conquerors and the indigenous people resulted in the creation of a new population, known to us by such labels as mestizos. This new population later played a central role in the movements for independence from the colonial state. Genetic research on the populations in this region, including those of the postcolonial period, illustrates how the society in this region has renewed itself through contact with different populations, overcoming the conventional relationship between governing and governed people and undergoing complex interactions involving multiple cultural and biological factors.

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In this essay, the origin and establishment of the Inka have been discussed on the basis of current DNA data. Since sufficient samples are not yet available in some areas, we can draw only tentative conclusions. It is apparent that we need to collect further data that cover more extensive regions and different time periods. As noted, the frequency of mtDNA haplogroups evidently differed between populations in coastal and mountainous regions of the Andes and between populations from northern and southern parts. Cuzco, which served as the center of the Inka Empire, was located close to the northern edge of the altiplano and thus, genetically speaking, was in an active zone where different regional populations with divergent genetic compositions came into contact with each other. The present study demonstrates that the Inka belonged to the altiplano group, but exactly when this group entered the region remains obscure. Although preliminary DNA analysis of the samples from the Formative site suggests replacement of the original population with a new one at some point, there is still an open question about the relationship between the Inkas and the post-Formative (but also pre-Inka) populations (e.g., the Chancas, descendants of inhabitants of the Wari regional center of Pikillacta, and so on). Although diverse cultures flourished and perished during the long Andean prehistory, few studies have analyzed how changes in human populations were involved in alterations of these cultures. Discussion of this issue with regard to the Cuzco area will provide a useful platform from which to evaluate the same issue on the broader scale of the Andes as a whole. Note

1. The sites at Machu Picchu, as well as the surrounding areas, are currently managed as the Machu Picchu Park. The human bones excavated from this inclusive area are called “Machu Picchu human bones.” Most of the human bones at the Machu Picchu site itself were excavated by Hiram Bingham and stored at Yale University until they were returned to Peru in 2011. Detailed morphological study of these human bones has been carried out (Verano 2003), but DNA analysis of these remains has not been conducted. Of the human bones we analyzed in the present study, only two sets were excavated from the Machu Picchu site itself (after the 1990s) and other sets were excavated from different sites scattered within the wide area encompassed by the Machu Picchu Park. The bones from the latter sets are considered to be those of Inka people who primarily engaged in agriculture in this region.

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Acknowledgments I am grateful to Sonia Guillen of the Centro Mallqui Research Institute and Elva Torres from the Institute of Culture of Cuzco for their assistance in the collection of skeletal samples used in the mtDNA analysis. I would like to thank Izumi Shimada for his invaluable suggestions and comments on this chapter. This study has been supported in part by a Grant-in-Aid for Scientific Research (no. 19405019) from the Japan Society for the Promotion of Science. Bibliography Achilli, Alessandro, Ugo A. Perego, Claudio M. Bravi, Michael D. Coble, Qing-Peng Kong, Scott R. Woodward, Antonio Salas et al.

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2008 “A Three-Stage Colonization Model for the Peopling of the Americas.” PLoS ONE 3(2):e1596. doi:10.1371/ journal.pone.0001596. Kivisild, Toomas, Helle-Viivi Tolk, Jüri Parik, Yiming Wang, Surinder S. Papiha, Hans-Jürgen Bandelt, and Richard Villems

2002 “The Emerging Limbs and Twigs of the East Asian mtDNA Tree.” Molecular Biology and Evolution 19:1737–1751. Lewis, Cecil M., Jr., Beatriz Lizárraga, Raúl Y. Tito, Paul W. López, Giankarlo Iannacone, Angel Medina, Rolando Martínez et al.

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CHAPTER 5

Separating the Wheat from the Chaff Inka Myths, Inka Legends, and the Archaeological Evidence for State Development Brian S. Bauer and Douglas K. Smit Throughout much of the twentieth century, scholars relied on literal readings of the Spanish chroniclers to explain the development and subsequent rapid expansion of the Inka state across the Andes. As a result of John Rowe’s review of the available chronicles, the development of the Inka state was associated with Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui’s rise to power, which Rowe (1944) estimated to have occurred in a.d. 1438. Inherent in this traditional view was the assumption that the Inka state had both developed and expanded within the lifetime of a single ruler. This stance is exemplified by Nigel Davis (1995:59), who writes, “When he [Pachacuti] became ruler, the Inka formed only a modest village community; at his death they were the mightiest empire of South America,” and by Duccio Bonavia (2000:134), who states, “It was not until the fifteenth century, however, that the Inkas achieved a state-type organization, which was precipitated by growing hostilities of contiguous ethnic groups, such as the Chanka or those around Lake Titicaca, who posed a threat to the Inkas’ freedom.” In the general absence of systematically collected archaeological data on the Inka state, there was little debate or even discussion for many decades regarding what had occurred in the Cuzco region during the period of state development. It was simply presumed that Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui had unified the region, founded the state, and then led the Inkas on a road to imperial greatness across the Andes. Beginning in the 1980s, however, a series of archaeological survey projects were undertaken in the Cuzco region that were to provide a wealth of information on the processes that took place during the development of the Inka state (Bauer 1992, 2004; Covey 2006; Kosiba 2011, 2012). Around the same time, several archaeological projects were conducted within the heartlands of

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ethnic groups of this period who lived elsewhere in the Andes (Arkush 2011; Bauer and Kellett 2010; D’Altroy and Hastorf 2001). Combined, these studies have aided researchers in shifting the focus of investigation from the myths and legends recorded in the chronicles to a more comparative and archaeologically based analysis of the rise of the Inka and their relations with contemporary groups. These studies also reflect a greater reliance on an anthropologically based literature that has consistently shown that state-level sociopolitical complexity does not appear overnight, but is the result of long-term formative processes. In short, as Inka scholarship begins to overhaul its decades-old interpretative model, and as research efforts are refocused on archaeological data and anthropological models of state formation, rather than on mythical and legendary accounts, a new understanding of Inka state formation as well as its relationships with other Andean groups is emerging (Bauer 1992, 2004; Bauer et al. 2010). The Origin Myths of the Inka, Revisited and Rejected The Inka origin myths detailed by the sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century Spanish chroniclers attempt to explain the appearance of the Inka as a distinct ethnic group within the Cuzco valley as the result of a long-­ distance journey following the immaculate emergence of a foundational couple (Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo) from a cave south of Cuzco near the town Pacaritambo (Bauer 1992, 1996) or, alternatively, from two islands in Lake Titicaca (Bauer and Stanish 2001). The chroniclers, following the oral accounts told to them by indigenous informants, suggest that in the following

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generations the Inkas established themselves as one of many competing ethnic groups in the Cuzco valley. Some scholars continue to read these origin myths as historically accurate and have suggested that the ancestors of the Inka were involved in a long, northerly migration, originating in Pacaritambo or Lake Titicaca or even both (see chapters 3, 4, and 15 in this volume, by Cerrón-Palomino, Shinoda, and Pärssinen, respectively; for a differing view see chapter 2, by Salomon). In contrast, this article will highlight recent archaeological data from four different ethnic groups located across the Andes that provide a clearer picture of the sociopolitical conditions that gave rise to the Inka state. Most authors in this volume urge that historic information from the Spanish chronicles be kept independent of and then compared to the archaeological record (see in particular chapter 15, by Pärssinen). We fully agree with this stance and further emphasize that the chronicles need to be read critically to separate mythical, legendary, and historical forms of information. More specifically, we believe that it is unproductive to use archaeological data to attempt to evaluate the veracity of most mythic and legendary narrations. Just as we would not use recent archaeological data to test the veracity of the Judeo-Christian Adam and Eve origin myth, it is ill-advised to use archaeological data to examine the origin myths of South American cultures. In regards to “Inka origins,” there have been attempts to combine narratives of mythical events with archaeological data to produce a combined “mythico-history”; but these have only resulted in muddled understandings of both Andean mythology and Andean history (see Hiltunen and McEwan 2004). There have also been attempts to link the development of the Inka state in the Cuzco region with mythical events said to have taken place in the Lake Titicaca region. For example, some linguists suggest that theoretical ties between protoversions of Quechua, Aymara, and Puquina support an ancestral movement of peoples from the Lake Titicaca region to Cuzco, which is, they believe, revealed in the Lake Titicaca origin myth (see chapter 3, by Cerrón-­ Palomino). Likewise, there has been research to examine the “origins” of the Inka through DNA analysis and attempts to link those results with information contained within the Lake Titicaca and Pacaritambo origin myths of the Inkas (see chapter 4, by Shinoda). Unfortunately, some of the DNA samples from the Cuzco region were collected within the context of a limited understanding of the local cultural sequence. Samples

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from different sites, different regional groups, and even different time periods appear to have been collected and analyzed together. Even more troubling is the belief that DNA information will provide “hard” evidence to either support or negate an origin myth. By definition, the events that are described within myths take place in a time and space different from our own, and the application of scientific methods to prove or disprove them seems imprudent. The power of myths does not come from their historical veracity, but instead from their ability to explain current social conditions. In other words, accepting origin myths as semihistorical truths neglects the role that individuals and cultures have as active forces in the production of these narratives, and, even more central, it denies the underlying power of indigenous religions to provide sacred narratives that explain how and why the world reached its current form. While there is no doubt that multidisciplinary approaches offer the best grounds for studying historic and prehistoric events, it is critical that scholars both strive for epistemological independence between multiple lines of evidence (Wylie 2000) and be scrupulous about understanding the basic nature of their data sources. Unfortunately, studies that attempt to forge connections between the formation of the Inka state and the ancestral migration of a foundational couple from Lake Titicaca or Pacaritambo appear to first implicitly presume the historic veracity of these Inka origin myths and then marshal scattered pieces of evidence to support the historicity of the narratives. As they do this, they ignore large data sets that point toward more mundane, and locally based, developmental processes. In contrast, we contend that large and systematically collected archaeological databases offer the best beginning points for studying the prehistoric development of past cultures. These databases become even more powerful when they are developed by different researchers, as has been done in the case of the Late Intermediate Period (LIP) cultures of the central Andes. The Legend of Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui and the Rise of the Inka The uncritical acceptance of the information gathered within the Spanish chronicles has also led to the widespread acceptance of certain Inka legends as untarnished and accurate retellings of history.1 This is most

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clearly illustrated in the frequently told account of Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui’s legendary rise to political power following the defeat of invading Chanka forces. The prevailing narratives on this topic suggest that the Inka were but one of many small groups in the central Andes region before the Chanka–Inka war took place, and that they were fundamentally transformed from a village-level community to an expansionist state as a result of this war. In other words, many chroniclers and subsequently many modern researchers have accepted this legend at face value and have credited Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui with singlehandedly transforming the Inka from a small Cuzco polity to a large, multiethnic, and rapidly expanding state in the span of a few years. For example, Brundage (1963:95) writes, “The Chanka victory is presented to us . . . as the most striking event in all Inka history, the year one, as it were.” The legend of the Chanka–Inka war is generally not used by scholars to provide a general regional context in which the processes of state development took place; instead it is presented as a direct explanation for the origins of the Inka state. The actions of Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui raise him to the level of a culture hero, and he is subsequently credited with the invention of a vast array of new cultural institutions. We do not challenge the existence of Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui as a major figure in Inka history, but we do believe that perspectives that posit a singular event or individual as providing the sole impetus for state formation reflect a misguided overreliance on origin myths and legends as sources of historical information. While current archaeological data and recent radiocarbon dates do suggest that the Inka Empire began to dramatically expand across the central Andes around a.d. 1400 (Bauer 1992; Bauer et al. 2010; Covey 2006), suggestions that the processes of state formation in the Cuzco region were the results of the actions of a single man contradict the existing archaeological data from the Cuzco basin (Bauer and Covey 2002). Furthermore, the traditional “great man”–centered vision of state formation contradicts the broader anthropological literature regarding the development of sociopolitical complexity. Although individual leaders can oversee and direct imperial expansion, as Carneiro asserts, “the actions of individuals, no matter how gifted, count for naught in the absence of certain enabling conditions” (2000:198). We believe that attempting to answer questions regarding the exact chronology or details of Pachacuti’s

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actions in determining Inka state formation is beyond the scope of most archaeological inquiries, and we contend that researchers should focus on a broader analysis of the social conditions of the Cuzco region and the central Andean highlands in general that enabled the gradual formation of the Inka state and its expansion. Divesting Inka scholarship of an overreliance on myths and legends and an excessively literal reading of the Spanish chroniclers in turn allows for the development of new models, which will incorporate issues of state formation that operate at comparative levels and which will stand in greater harmony with anthropological considerations of the formation of sociopolitical complexity. The application of economic, ecological, or ideological themes to a processual understanding of Inka state formation is by no means a recent development. Several scholars during the late 1970s and early 1980s attempted to explore Inka state formation through discussions of, for example, economic exchanges (Rost­ worowski 1978, 1988), warfare (Lumbreras 1978), mutual developments of economic redistribution and political centralization (Murra 1972; Isbell 1978; Schaedel 1978), and class conflict (Patterson 1985). Although these approaches must be credited with advancing the theoretical understanding of possible avenues of state formation, they were published before regional archaeological data from the Cuzco region became available, and as such they could have only a minor impact on the course of scholarly debate. Like the earlier works of Rowe and many others interested in the history of the Inka, these earlier explorations of Inka state formation were developed directly from, and were overtly dependent on, information presented in the Spanish chronicles. They offered no independent data sources with which to test their basic assumptions. In other words, at the time that they were presented, these alternative models of state development could not be empirically tested or verified using archaeological data, and thus they gained little scholarly traction. A number of recently conducted regional archaeological survey projects in the Cuzco region focused on collecting data regarding Inka state development. This growing archaeological database (e.g., Bauer 2004; Covey 2006, 2008; Kosiba 2011, 2012) suggests that the Inka state was the culmination of long-term, in situ processes of political consolidation exhibiting both unification and centralization. Similar to later examples of Inka statecraft throughout the empire, early practices in

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political consolidation relied on a variety of strategies, ranging from outright conquest to peaceful negotiation through gift exchange and/or marriage alliances (Bauer and Covey 2002; Covey 2006). Furthermore, recent regional studies that have been conducted within the territories of other Late Intermediate Period ethnic groups in different parts of the Andes dramatically underscore the unique level of regional consolidation that occurred in the Cuzco region between a.d. 1000 and a.d. 1400 and that later allowed the Inka to become the largest empire of the Americas (Covey 2008). The Late Intermediate Period in the Central Andes In order to comprehend the rise of the Inka, one must first understand the collapse of two large Andean states, the Wari of Ayacucho and the Tiwanaku of the Lake Titicaca region, in approximately a.d. 1000. The several centuries that followed these events are generally called

Figure 5.1. Late Intermediate Period map of the central Andes showing the locations of the Wanka, Chanka, Inka, and Colla ethnic groups around a.d. 1300.

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the Late Intermediate Period (a.d. 1000–1400), which was characterized by large-scale demographic movements, shifts in resource-procurement strategies, and a decentralization of political authority across much of the Andes, notably in the highlands (Parsons and Hastings 1988). However, a recent upsurge in LIP studies has revealed tremendous variation in regional patterns, as different polities exhibited diverse forms of sociopolitical complexity (Covey 2008). Understanding the development and uneven distribution of these conditions can lead us toward an understanding of how and why Cuzco emerged as the center of an embryonic state during the early LIP and why similar systems of sociopolitical complexity did not develop elsewhere in the Andean highlands during the same period. In order to comprehend the unique process of Inka state formation during the LIP, it is first critical to determine the commonalities and dissimilarities that the Inkas had with other LIP Andean groups. These features become clear only when the early history of the Cuzco region is set within a comparative context produced by other archaeological projects conducted in central Andean areas—and not merely deduced from the myths and legends of its inhabitants. Until recently the LIP was a largely understudied period of Andean prehistory, overshadowed by scholarly interests in the volatile states of the Middle Horizon (a.d. 550–1000; Wari and Tiwanaku) and the Late Horizon (a.d. 1400–1532; Inka). However, as Andean archaeology has begun to focus on processual questions, this intermediate time period is now seen as a critical era of regional development (Parsons and Hastings 1977; Lumbreras 1978). This new focus is reflected by the growing number of research projects that seek not only to understand the LIP history of the Inka of the Cuzco region, but also to emphasize the unique trajectories of other ethnic groups across the highlands (see Covey 2008 for a comprehensive overview). For example, the Upper Mantaro Archaeological Research Project (UMARP) has focused on the Wanka ethnicity (D’Altroy and Hastorf 2001), while Arkush (2011) has examined the Colla of the Lake Titicaca basin, and Bauer and Kellett have examined the Chanka of the Andahuaylas region (Bauer et al. 2010; Kellett 2010). While these projects cover only a small number of ethnic groups, they serve to illustrate the diversity of sociopolitical conditions that existed among central Andean polities during the LIP.

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The Wanka and the Upper Mantaro Inspired by several antecedent studies, including those of Matos (1975) and Parsons and Hastings (1977), UMARP (1978–1986) established the paradigm for Andean regional archaeological studies on the LIP. Focusing on the Wanka ethnic group of the Upper Mantaro region, UMARP investigated not only how the Inka consolidated the Wanka into their empire, but also the sociopolitical organization of the region prior to Inka annexation (D’Altroy and Hastorf 2001). Building on a well-designed regional survey (Parsons et al. 2000) as well as on their own extensive program of excavations, UMARP found that the local population of the Upper Mantaro around the turn of the first millennium a.d. lived in numerous small residential sites that were dispersed across the full range of environmental zones of the region. However, the archaeological data from between a.d. 1000 and a.d. 1350 demonstrated a growth in population, as well as the development of an increasingly hierarchical settlement pattern throughout the region. During this period, the scattered villages of the highly productive valley bottoms were abandoned in favor of a smaller number of much larger hilltop settlements, encircled by large stone walls. This shift from valley bottom to higher elevation settlements corresponds with a parallel shift in the focus of resource-procurement strategies: from maize to high-altitude grains and tubers (D’Altroy and Hastorf 2001). The largest Wanka settlement, Hatunmarca (74 hectares), grew to become one of the largest towns of the highlands, yet there is only limited evidence for the emergence of an “elite” class among the Wanka at this time.2 Distinct Wanka lived in larger house compounds and had access to finer goods and more exotic materials; however, their material wealth was not qualitatively different from others within the same communities. In other words, there is no doubt that important families or powerful lineages existed among the Wanka, but their overall prestige and wealth appear to have been limited before the Inka state incorporated the Wanka into their expansionist empire, sometime after a.d. 1400 (D’Altroy and Hastorf 2001). Under the rule of the Inka, the hilltop settlements of the region were abandoned and a number of even larger Inka settlements were built in the valley bottoms. A complex system of roads and storage facilities was built

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within the region (Levine 1992), there was a greater emphasis on maize production, and the town of Hatun Xuaxa developed into one of the largest provincial centers in the Inka Empire (D’Altroy and Hastorf 2001). The Colla and the Lake Titicaca Basin Archaeological research within the Lake Titicaca basin has provided further insight into the political balkanization that occurred across the Andean highlands during the LIP (Stanish 2003; Arkush 2011). Building on a long tradition of scholarly research on the ethnic groups of the Lake Titicaca basin (Diez de San Miguel [1567] 1964; Murra 1968; Hyslop 1976; Lumbreras 1974), recent research within an ethnic polity loosely defined as the Colla has focused on the large number of hilltop fortresses that dominated the landscape. Like the walled towns of the Wanka, the impressive hilltop forts of the Colla highlight the social conflict that existed across the Andes during the LIP. The research of Arkush (2011) and Stanish (Arkush and Stanish 2005; Stanish 2003) has uncovered contradictions between the earliest historic accounts of the LIP populations and the archaeological record of the Lake Titicaca basin. According to Spanish chroniclers, such as Betanzos ([1551–1557] 1996), two large polities dominated the Lake Titicaca basin at the time of Inka conquest: the Lupaca in the southwest, and the Colla in the north. Based on general readings of these and other Spanish chronicles, it has been widely believed that the Lupaca and the Colla developed into distinct “kingdoms,” each ruled by strong hereditary lords whose power and political sway rivaled, if not equaled, those of the Inka. However, the archaeological data reveal a far more complex developmental process, which began with the Tiwanaku collapse (ca. a.d. 1000) (Arkush 2011). After the fall of the urban center of Tiwanaku and its surrounding provincial centers, the early LIP settlement pattern of the Lake Titicaca basin was characterized by widely dispersed and relatively small towns and villages (Stanish 2003; Covey 2008). The raised-field systems that had supported the region during Tiwanaku times were abandoned, and the new settlements were established on hilltops and later fortified with large walls. Most recently, Arkush (2011) has been able to demarcate two distinct phases of fortress construction among the Colla. During the first phase (a.d. 1000–1275), the

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overall population of the region shifted, moving from a large number of lake-level settlements to a smaller number of sites located on defensible hilltops. This shift mirrors larger patterns of settlement dispersal that followed the Tiwanaku collapse throughout the Titicaca basin. During the second phase (a.d. 1275–1450), the smaller hilltop sites were abandoned in favor of even larger hilltop settlements, a settlement shift that coincided with a marked increase in the construction of fortification walls. Although paleobotanical evidence is limited, the settlement shift to higher elevation has led some to postulate an increased reliance on agro-pastoralism through time (Arkush 2011; Stanish 2003). The architectural remains of the hilltop sites contain evidence of possible “elite” residences (for example, slightly larger structures are often clustered behind an extra set of fortifications at the high point of the fortress); however, distinct architectural forms, or “palaces,” were not constructed. Overall, intrasite settlement plans indicate that labor acted primarily upon communally beneficial features such as defensive walls and tombs, rather than on monumental architecture or organized settlement plans, as would characterize elitedirected and centralized planning (Arkush 2011). Interestingly, the settlement-pattern evidence of endemic warfare and decentralized power does not abate toward the latter stages of the LIP, contrasting with the early Spanish chroniclers, who mention accounts of an Inka conquest of a unified Colla “kingdom” (Arkush 2011). The Chanka and the Andahuaylas Region Archaeological research on the sociopolitical organization of the Chanka ethnic group during the LIP has recently been completed in the Andahuaylas region (Bauer et al. 2010; Bauer and Kellett 2010; Kellett 2010). Knowledge of the pre-Inka social conditions of the Andahuaylas region—and its associated Chanka ethnic group—is especially important to an understanding of the activities of the Inka in the Cuzco region, as it is widely assumed that the Chanka and the Inka were close rivals locked in a brutal war at the end of the LIP (Bonavia 2000). Until recently, the political nature of the Chanka has remained elusive, in part because we have not been able to define their territorial boundaries. Previous research has emphasized common traits—chullpas (burial towers) and hilltop fortresses (see fig. 5.2)—to postulate a widespread Chanka entity that ranged across the mod-

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ern Peruvian departments of Huancavelica, Ayacucho, and Apurimac (see fig. 5.3). This portrayal of a multidepartmental and largely united entity reinforced the traditional legend-based narratives that posit the Chanka as a vast and politically centralized and powerful polity. However, chullpas and hilltop fortresses are common features found across the Andean highlands throughout the LIP; for example, they are also found in the aforementioned Lake Titicaca basin (Arkush 2011) and Wanka territory (D’Altroy and Hastorf 2001), and are therefore extremely problematic markers of a Chanka polity. Beyond the superficial commonalities in the architecture, our analysis of the material record does not support the application of “Chanka” to LIP ethnic groups within the Huancavelica, Ayacucho, and Apurimac departments (Bauer and Kellett 2010). Instead, it appears that these departments were occupied by an array of different, and at times even competing, ethnic groups. The homeland of the Chanka lies approximately 160 kilometers west of Cuzco, in the modern Peruvian province of Andahuaylas. A recent regional survey of the Andahuaylas region has demonstrated that after the Wari collapse (ca. a.d. 1000), most of the small villages located in the valley bottoms were abandoned and the population subsequently shifted to a number of much smaller nucleated settlements situated on defensible ridge-tops (Kellett 2010). While the defensive characteristics of these ridgetop sites are not as expansive as those found among other contemporaneous groups, such as the Wanka or the Colla, it is nevertheless clear that there was a dramatic increase in threats of violence during the LIP. It also appears that there was an increased emphasis on pastoralism and the farming of high-altitude crops during this period (Kellett 2010). Perhaps most surprising is that the overall regional settlement pattern within the Andahuaylas region provides no evidence of strong political unification or the emergence of a complex social stratification during the LIP. Most importantly, there is no clear settlement hierarchy for the region, no public works other than defense features, and no evidence for the development of different classes within sites, and the population appears to have been widely distributed in relatively small towns and villages across the landscape (Bauer et al. 2010; Bauer and Kellett 2010). In other words, the archaeological evidence does not support the legend-based accounts that suggest that the Chanka developed as a singularly powerful and well-organized ethnic group

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Figure 5.2. A classic LIP site with circular buildings in the Andahuaylas region of Peru. (Bauer et al. 2010:77)

Figure 5.3. Settlement pattern of the Chanka (ca. a.d. 1000–1400) in the Andahuaylas region. (Bauer et al. 2010:74)

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ridges or hilltops, an increasing prevalence of warfare, a diversification of subsistence practices, and an overall lack of regional centralization. Fieldwork in the Cuzco region indicates that the course of sociopolitical development followed a very different path in the heartland of the Inkas. State Formation in the Cuzco Region

Figure 5.4. The site of Achanchi is one of the largest Chanka sites of the Andahuaylas region. This is a fortified hilltop site similar in form to many other LIP sites found across the central highlands. (Bauer et al. 2010:81)

during the LIP (fig. 5.4). As will be discussed in more detail below, rather than paralleling the dramatic centralization of wealth and power that occurred in the Cuzco region among the Inka, the development pattern of the Chanka appears to be very similar to those of the many other relatively small polities scattered across the highlands during the LIP. Trends of the Late Intermediate Period We have provided three case studies (Wankas, Collas, and Chankas) that help to highlight the political decentralization and balkanization that occurred in the central highlands following the collapse of Tiwanaku and Wari. Although the regional specifics of each of these three cases differ, they illustrate a number of common trends across the highlands between a.d. 1000 and a.d. 1400: the widespread abandonment of valley-bottom settlements, the construction of new settlements on

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Although Rowe (1944) had conducted excavations within the Cuzco basin to develop a chronological ceramic sequence, settlement patterns in the Cuzco region remained uninvestigated until the 1980s. The first large-scale settlement survey was conducted by Bauer, between 1984 and 1987, and included a 600-square-kilometer survey of the area directly south of Cuzco (Bauer 1992). The results of this survey not only demonstrated the necessity for acquiring regional settlement data in the Cuzco region, but also revealed the problematic nature of relying on the chronicles to assume a shallow chronology for state formation. Two further surveys subsequently expanded upon this initial project: a 350-square-kilometer survey within the Cuzco basin itself, between 1997 and 1999 (Bauer and Covey 2002), and a 300-square-kilometer survey north of Cuzco, in 2000 (Covey 2006). Taken together, these three projects documented more than two thousand archaeological sites throughout a contiguous survey area of over 1,200 square kilometers. Additionally, the resulting research zone forms a continuous transect that stretches over 80 kilometers along the north–south axis of the Cuzco region, thereby providing the first comprehensive view of changing settlement patterns throughout the formative processes of the Inka state (Bauer and Covey 2002). In other words, through the creation of a combined database from several diffrent, but related, projects, we can move beyond literal readings of Inka myths and legends and begin to examine the historic development of the Inka within their heartland. The Cuzco Basin from the Middle Horizon to the Late Intermediate Period As demonstrated by the nearby presence of Pikillacta— a large Wari administrative center located 30 kilometers to the south, in the Lucre basin—the Cuzco basin during the Middle Horizon (a.d. 600–1000) was within the sphere of Wari influence. However, there is very little evidence that Wari administration significantly

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disrupted settlement patterns within the Cuzco basin proper. Prior to the appearance of the Wari, and continuing throughout the Middle Horizon with little deviation, the population of the Cuzco basin was concentrated within several villages on the southern side of the valley, along lower slopes and valley bottomlands that were ideally positioned to take advantage of the alluvial terraces of Huatanay River and rainfall farming (Bauer and Covey 2002). The Wari collapse at approximately a.d. 1000 resulted in the abandonment of Pikillacta; the settlement pattern was transformed as political competition increased in the absence of Wari administration. During the early LIP (a.d. 1000–1200), the local settlements increased in number and population, while a distinct new settlement pattern developed on the northern end of the Cuzco valley, in an area where there is little evidence of prior intensive habitation (Covey 2006). The growing population of the northern end of the valley supported itself by constructing large terraces that created thousands of hectares of improved agricultural land, supplied with water provided by a series of newly

constructed canals (fig. 5.6). This growth in population and agricultural productivity suggests that settlement shifts in the Cuzco basin coincided with an increased ability of local elites to mobilize large labor forces for the construction of further agricultural improvements, as well as the ability to exercise a degree of control over the resulting agricultural surpluses (Bauer and Covey 2002). In contrast, the nearby Oropesa basin, located between the Cuzco basin and the Lucre basin, exhibited almost complete site abandonment and depopulation following the Wari collapse, providing further illustration of the unique processes occurring in the Cuzco basin during the early LIP. Rather than choosing full-scale abandonment of valley bottoms, or increased reliance on defensive hilltop fortresses, the Cuzco polity responded to the Wari collapse by placing a stronger emphasis on agricultural and economic productivity as a criterion for site location (Covey 2006). This growing network of settlements along the Cuzco basin floor flourished into the second half of the LIP (a.d. 1200–1400), suggesting a limited concern Figure 5.5. Area of archaeological surveys conducted in the Cuzco region between 1986 and 2000. (Bauer 2004:73)

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Figure 5.6. Unlike many other areas of the central Andes, where the inhabitants were living in fortified hilltop settlements, by around a.d. 1300 the Inka had developed a massive infrastructure and a large population base in the Cuzco basin. (Bauer 2004:76)

with warfare or raiding and increased centralization of political unitary. Furthermore, this settlement pattern exhibits continuity from the Middle Horizon (a.d. 600–1000) up through the appearance of imperial Inka pottery, indicating a lack of the conflict that could otherwise have threatened the internal processes of sociopolitical consolidation (Covey and Bauer 2002). Climatically, it is proposed, based on lake sediment cores and ice cores, that the Cuzco basin underwent a region-wide drought from approximately a.d. 1250 until a.d. 1310, not only requiring an intensification of agricultural production, but likely prompting further construction of agricultural improvements to the landscape (Covey 2006).3 This period also saw the development of Cuzco as a distinct urban center, which increased in size to 50 hectares at a time when other political centers in the nearby Sacred Valley and Paruro did not expand beyond 10 hectares (Bauer 1992; Covey 2006). Materially, excavations of the Cuzco urban center during this period have uncovered large amounts of high-quality Killke (i.e., early Inka) ceramics,4 notably below sites that would assume great importance during the imperial period, such as Sacsayhuaman, Cusicancha, and the Coricancha, as well as across the central core of the city

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of Cuzco. This signifies a far greater degree of continuity from the LIP to the imperial period than a literal reading of the chronicles would indicate (Bauer and Covey 2002). Archaeological Evidence from the Greater Cuzco Region By a.d. 1300, settlement data from the Cuzco basin indicate a growing hierarchical network of multitiered settlements centered around a rapidly urbanizing Cuzco, an intense system of agricultural terracing and canals that increased the efficiency and quantity of maize production, and increasingly standardized Killke ceramics (Covey 2008). Additionally, two separate lines of archaeological evidence from valleys adjacent to the Cuzco basin indicate that the developing Inka polity incorporated nearby ethnic groups at a much earlier time than previously assumed. First, Killke ceramics are widely distributed at archaeological sites as far as 50 kilometers away, yet decrease in number as the distance from Cuzco increases (Bauer 1992, 1999). Surface collections conducted during the aforementioned surveys also illustrate that Killke ceramics are found at a higher

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frequency and larger spatial distribution than other LIP ceramic types in this region after a.d. 1300 (Covey 2008). Second, settlement patterns from surrounding regions display contradicting levels of sociopolitical complexity. For example, the Pauro region to the south of Cuzco contains many small, scattered settlements found adjacent to agricultural land with little evidence of inter- or intrasite hierarchy (Bauer 1992). Heffernan (1989) found similar settlement patterns in the Limatambo region, 50 kilometers to the west of Cuzco. Compared with accounts of this area in the Spanish chronicles, Heffernan notes that “the mythico-historic characterization of pre-Inka populations as constantly warring, in light of field evidence, is imbalanced and fails to appreciate stable elements in the socio-economic landscape of Limatambo” (Heffernan 1989:413). However, research from the north of Cuzco does demonstrate a greater prevalence of fortified hilltop sites. For example, the site of Muyuch’urqu dominates the Cuyo basin from an elevated ridgetop 4,000 meters above sea level. Located in the center of a nucleated settlement pattern, this site appears to have been the center of a small independent polity, with the high frequency of defensive features suggesting a lack of peaceful interaction with the expanding Inka state. Across the Cuyo basin, at a higher elevation than Muyuch’urqu, the site of Pukara Pantillijlla contains the earliest ceramic and architectural evidence of Inka presence in the region. Following the construction of Pukara Pantillijlla, settlement patterns shift to valley lowlands and several massive irrigation projects were completed, signifying the advent of Inka administration over a previously confrontational polity (Covey and Bauer 2002). Radiocarbon data from classic Inka-style buildings at the site of Pukara Pantillijlla date site construction to a.d. 1300, potentially representing “a terminus ante quem of c. a.d. 1300 for Inka state formation” (Covey 2008:299). Conclusion We contend that the uncritical incorporation of origin myths and legends into models of state development is an unproductive method of reconstructing the past. This is not to say that myths and legends provide no information whatsoever; instead, we assert that they must be treated as different types of narratives rather than as semihistoric accounts. For example, origin

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myths can provide profoundly important insights regarding how different cultures conceive of their ancient past, and such myths provide explanatory information regarding central religious rituals (Bauer 1996; Sahlins 1981, 1985), but they should not be regarded as narrating what actually occurred. The reconstruction of the ancient past can be done only in a gradual fashion, with large-scale and systematic research; the attempted reliance on mythic or legendary events is an unacceptable shortcut. Throughout the Andes, the LIP/Late Horizon Period boundary is marked by the arrival of imperialstyle Inka artifacts and architecture, which compels us to place the temporal focus of research regarding Inka state formation on LIP sociopolitical complexity. Through a comparison of several recent LIP studies— the Wanka of the Jauja region (D’Altroy and Hastorf 2001), the Colla from the Lake Titicaca region (Arkush 2011), and the Chanka from the Andahuaylas region (Bauer et al. 2010)—we have presented in this chapter archaeological data that dramatically underscore the unique level of regional consolidation present within the Cuzco basin on the eve of the Inka expansion. In contrast to mythic accounts of Inka origins in the Pacaritambo or Lake Titicaca region and the legendbased accounts of Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui’s meteoric rise to power, the archaeological evidence provides a distinctly different picture. In other words, the material record contradicts much of the information provided in the Spanish chronicles. From our perspective, it is clear that the colonial narratives overstate the degree of political centralization of groups surrounding the Cuzco region at the time of imperial expansion. The lack of archaeological evidence for political centralization of the Chanka is particularly significant, as the chronicles state that the Chanka invasion of Inka Cuzco was the original impetus for state formation under Pachacuti. The discrepancies between information provided in the Spanish chronicles and the archaeological record of conquered groups such as the Chanka and Colla call into question the traditional use of these chronicles to reconstruct the development of Inka sociopolitical complexity through time. As discussed elsewhere (Bauer 2004; Bauer and Covey 2002; Covey 2006), state development progressed through the unification of a host of different ethnic groups of varying sizes scattered across the Cuzco region, notably the Pinahua and Mohina of the Lucre basin and the Ayamarca of the Maras area. The

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unification—or in a few cases the successful elimination—of these ethnic groups over the course of several centuries resulted in the creation of an Inka state and a heartland capable of sustaining rapid Inka imperial expansion. In a foreshadowing of later imperial practices, the Inka utilized a diverse range of strategies to incorporate neighboring polities into the developing state. Several less powerful neighboring ethnic polities accepted Inka administration early on, perhaps even inviting Inka patronage to secure the benefits of growing Inka exchange networks. Examples of this can be found south of the Cuzco valley, where little evidence of conquest or abrupt settlement change is noted in the latter stages of the LIP, suggesting that these groups were absorbed earlier into the developing state. In contrast, stronger neighboring groups maintained their independence from Inka control, at times depopulating areas and settling in defensive sites to protect settlements and resources. In the southeastern end of the Cuzco valley, in the Lucre basin, the Pinahua and Inka remained rivals during the initial phases of regional state formation. It was only following more substantial state consolidation in neighboring areas that the Inka successfully incorporated the Lucre basin. Finally, groups of intermediate complexity used alliances and violence to align themselves with the strongest regional competitors. It is certain that, as occurs worldwide, marriages between elite families of different ethnic groups helped to promote stable, cross-­ generational coalitions. Additionally, the neighboring elites gained access to the regional agricultural intensification, as well as a regional exchange network facilitated by a growing network of Inka roads. Most importantly, the groups within the area came to see themselves as “Inka,” resulting in an expanded population base across the Cuzco region that became culturally distinct from nearby Andean regions such as the Lake Titicaca basin (Bauer and Covey 2002). The ethnic integration of the greater Cuzco region was a critical phase in the cultural development of the region and later enabled these groups to expand into neighboring non-Inka regions. By a.d. 1300, the Inka had formed a large cultural heartland within the Cuzco region through the unification of over a dozen formerly independent groups; had developed a distinctive state architectural style; had built a large, central capital city; and were in the process of transforming the landscape with immense terrace systems. While other regions of the Andes continued to

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be politically fragmented and divided by regional conflict, archaeological data from the Cuzco region indicate a relative absence of defensive architecture, signifying a conspicuous lack of the warfare that was endemic throughout the Andes during the LIP. Furthermore, the archaeological data contradict the notion of rapid state formation driven by migration from outside the Cuzco region, as the settlement pattern data suggest not the rapid influx of a powerful foreign group, but rather continued stability. This viewpoint requires that a distinction be made between Inka state expansion, which occurred rapidly across the Andes, and state formation, a long-term process that occurred during the LIP and that laid the foundations for Inka imperialism. As a result, we reaffirm the need to redirect the interpretation of Inka origins away from the mythical and legendary accounts related by the chroniclers, and instead contend for a continued emphasis on examinations of Inka state-formative processes within an anthropologically grounded and archaeologically supported comparative framework. Notes

1. Myths and legends are two different forms of the retelling of the past. Myths tend to be more religious in nature and frequently address the fundamental organization of a society at the beginning of time, while legends frequently deal with the actions of culture heroes and are set within a more historic context. 2. It is an odd historic fact that despite its large size, Hatunmarca is only briefly mentioned in the classic chronicles of Peru. Various smaller ethnicities living closer to the early centers of Spanish control hold more dominant positions in Spanish retellings of the Andean past. 3. The exact timing and impact of climatic change on the settlement patterns of the LIP and the development of the Inka are still issues of major debate. 4. For additional information on Killke ceramics, see Bauer 1999 and 2002. Bibliography Arkush, Elizabeth N.

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Diez de San Miguel en el año 1567. Ed. Waldemar Espinoza Soriano. Documentos Regionales para la Etnología y Etnohistoria Andinas 1. Lima: Casa de la Cultura del Perú.

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“Legitimization of the State in Inca Myth and Ritual.” American Anthropologist 98:327–337. 1999 Early Ceramics of the Inca Heartland. Fieldiana Anthropology, n.s. 31. Chicago: Field Museum of Natural History. 2002 Las antiguas tradiciones alfarerías de la región del Cuzco. Cuzco: CERA “Bartolomé de Las Casas. 2004 Ancient Cuzco: Heartland of the Inca. Austin: University of Texas Press.

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(1551–1557) 1996 Narrative of the Incas. Trans. and ed. Roland Hamilton and Dana Buchanan. Austin: University of Texas Press.

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2006 How the Incas Built Their Heartland. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. 2008 “Multiregional Perspectives on the Archaeology of the Andes during the Late Intermediate Period (c. AD 1000–1400).” Journal of Archaeological Research 16:287–338. D’Altroy, Terence N., and Christine Ann Hastorf

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(1567) 1964  Visita hecha a la provincia de Chucuito por Garci

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“Chanka Settlement Ecology: Hilltop Sites, Land Use, and Warfare in Late Prehispanic Andahuaylas, Peru.” PhD diss., University of New Mexico. “The Politics of Locality: Pre-Inka Social Landscapes of the Cusco Region.” In The Archaeology of Politics: The Materiality of Political Practice and Action in the Past, ed. P. Johansen and A. Bauer, 114–150. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars. “Emplacing Value, Cultivating Order: Places of Conversion and Practices of Subordination throughout Early Inka State Formation (Cusco, Peru).” In Constructions of Value in the Ancient World, ed. G. Urton and J. Papadopoulos, 99–127. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, University of California.

LeVine, Terry

1992

Inka Storage Systems. Norman: University of Oklahoma.

Lumbreras, Luis Guillermo

1974 1978

The Peoples and Cultures of Ancient Peru. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution. “Acerca de la aparición del estado Inka.” In Actas y trabajos del III Congreso peruano “El Hombre y la cultura andina,” 1:101–109. Lima: UNMSM.

Matos Mendieta, Ramiro

1975

“Prehistoria y ecología humana en las punas de Junín.” Revista del Museo Nacional 37:41–51.

Montesinos, Fernando de

(1630) 1920  Memorias antiguas historiales del Perú. Trans. and ed. Philip Ainsworth Means. London: Hakuyt Society. Murra, John V.

1968 1972

“An Aymara Kingdom in 1567.” Ethnohistory 15:115–151. “El ‘control vertical’ de un máximo de pisos ecológicos en la economía de las sociedades andinas.” In Visita

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de la provincia de León de Huánuco por Inigo Ortiz De Zuniga hecha en 1562, ed. J. V. Murra, 429–476. Huánuco: Universidad Hermilio Valdizán. Parsons, J. R., and C. M. Hastings

1977

1988

“Prehispanic Settlement Patterns in the Upper Mantaro, Peru. A Preliminary Report of the 1975 Field Season.” Report submitted to the Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Lima, Peru, and the National Science Foundation. “The Late Intermediate Period.” In Peruvian Prehistory, ed. R. W. Keatinge, 190–229. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Parsons, Jeffrey R., Charles M. Hastings, and Ramiro Matos Mendieta

2000

Prehispanic Settlement Patterns in the Upper Mantaro and Tarma Drainages, Junín, Peru. Ann Arbor: Museum of Anthropology, University of Michigan.

1988

La historia del Tawantinsuyu. Lima: IEP.

Rowe, John H.

1944 An Introduction to the Archaeology of Cuzco. Cambridge, MA: Peabody Museum of Archaeology, Harvard University. 1946 “Inca Culture at the Time of Spanish Conquest.” In Handbook of South American Indians, ed. Julian H. Steward, 2:183–330. Bureau of American Ethnology Bulletin 143. Washington, DC. Sahlins, Marshall D.

1981 1985

“The Stranger-King; or, Dumezil among the Fijians.” Journal of Pacific History 16:107–132. Islands of History. Chicago: University of Chicago.

Schaedel, Richard

1978

“Early State of the Incas.” In The Early State, ed. H. J. M. Claessen and Peter Skalnik, 289–320. The Hague: Mouton.

Patterson, Thomas

Stanish, Charles

1985

2003

“Exploitation and Class Formation in the Inca State.” Culture 5.1:35–42.

Rostworowski de Diez Canseco, María

1978

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“Una hipotesis sobre el surgimiento del estado Inca.” In Actas Y trabajos del III Congreso Peruano “El Hombre y la cultura andina,” 89–100. Lima: UNMSM.

Ancient Titicaca: The Evolution of Complex Society in Southern Peru and Northern Bolivia. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Wylie, A.

2000 “Questions of Evidence, Legitimacy, and the (Dis) unity of Science.” American Antiquity 65:227–237.

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PA R T I I

Imperial Infrastructures and Administrative Strategies

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CHAPTER 6

Inka Imperial Intentions and Archaeological Realities in the Peruvian Highlands R. Alan Covey

The first Europeans to traverse the Peruvian highlands described a highly developed state infrastructure and a system of imperial government through which the Inkas directly ruled local populations. These impressions of Inka highland administration were acquired from an imperial point of view. Spaniards traveled along the Inka “royal highway” (called qhapaq ñan in Quechua), provisioned themselves from state storehouses (qollqa), and frequently sought shelter in Inka way stations. Early writers transcribed indigenous testimony about imperial administrative practices that typically came from Inka informants or high-ranking local elites. As archaeology has come to contribute more actively to the reconstruction of Inka imperialism, scholars have revisited these perspectives, seeking to describe both continuity and variation across Inka highland regions, as well as the overall impact of Inka rule on local populations. The intensity of Inka provincial administration lies at the core of contemporary debates, with scholars focusing on either territorial or social aspects of jurisdiction. For example, John Rowe’s (1946) classic synthesis of the Inka culture presented a provincial map of the empire that emphasized geographic coherence, one that has been elaborated more recently by Catherine Julien (1988). This approach reflects a more territorially oriented conceptualization of provincial administration (suyu), a state-focused stance where every highland ethnic group was reduced to a consistent administrative hierarchy based on a decimal system and structured, from the level of the province (hunu) to lower-order units consisting of a few handfuls of households. Cyclical labor tribute called mit’a flowed through these units directly to state projects that produced staple stores and wealth directly managed by the Inka ruler and his repre-

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sentatives. The expectations of this model can be tested with archaeological data—administrative centers of varying sizes should be found in each provincial area, with a clearly hierarchical imperial administrative apparatus found throughout a given provincial territory. Where a historicist reading of Inka ethnohistory has encouraged more uniform conceptualizations of provincial territories, John Murra’s ([1955] 1980) anthropological approach to non-elite provincial populations promoted bottom-up views on Inka statecraft where the state might be considered little more than a kin group writ large (see chapter 2, by Salomon). Meanwhile, Tom Zuidema ([1964] 1995) has observed that the upper stratum of the Inka imperial apparatus comprised not an all-powerful male ruler surrounded by functionaries, but rather a set of competing noble Inka factions and provincial elites who built alliances to vie for power in the capital. Social approaches to Inka imperialism regard reciprocity as a key concept in the extraction of labor tribute, with elites across the administrative hierarchy gaming the system to their best advantage and the state political economy ultimately owing at least symbolic repayment for services rendered. Archaeologically, this model of provincial order would expect to find continuity in local societies, with a variable Inka presence found within the context of local hierarchies. Social analyses of Inka power articulate the role of kinship and social obligations in blunting some forms of social power and enabling others—they emphasize social (rather than geographic) definitions of imperial jurisdictions, differentiating between titles reflecting the domination of social networks versus those used in Inka political hierarchies. The earliest Quechua lexicon (Santo Tomás [1560] 1951) lists yayanq and mama as terms for “lord” and “lady” of servants, with power

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expressed in terms of parental authority. In contrast, the term kuraka (curaca) is most commonly used for officials in the decimal administrative hierarchy—this term is associated with things counted in order (the kuraka rukana is the thumb), and is linked in later dictionaries with merit, preference, and elder sons (see chapter 9, by Urton). Thus, a yayanq or mama would hold sovereignty in his or her own right, as an extension of family and household, whereas a kuraka might be thought of as a “first among equals” who received authority from the Inka ruler. Treatment of the administrative hierarchy as the only source of state power has tended to underestimate the political power of Inka women, and it is important to note the prevalence of female religious officials (mamakuna) in contexts of state ceremony and religious authority. As Inka provincial archaeology has developed, particularly since the 1970s (e.g., Dillehay 1977; Morris 1972), the intellectual traditions outlined above have come to be seen as complementary rather than mutually exclusive, and D’Altroy (1992) and others (e.g., Burger et al. 2007) emphasize the variability in Inka provincial administration, often describing it as a continuum between direct and indirect policies. While these approaches capture key aspects of variation found in different provincial regions, Inka imperialism is still often treated as geographically continuous across the highlands and as lacking a long-term developmental trajectory. Scholars still must answer the questions of when, where, and how the Inka Empire exercised power over local populations, and explain the circumstances where it did not. Ultimately, testing and improving models for Inka highland provincial administration requires solid archaeological data from multiple regions over a long time span. Additionally, it is important to employ a robust document-based model for Inka highland rule, one that is not grounded in seventeenth-century sources like Garcilaso de la Vega ([1609] 1965) and Bernabé Cobo ([1653] 1964), but rather is built on the earliest detailed accounts written by authors who personally interviewed noble Inka informants (e.g., Betanzos [1550s] 1999; Cieza de León [ca. 1550] 1988). Claims made by the Inka nobility can be compared with early colonial documents from provincial regions (e.g., Diez de San Miguel [1567] 1964; Ortiz de Zúñiga [1562] 1967, [1562] 1972), and other relevant documents written in the first generation following the Spanish conquest (see chapters 2 and 17, by Salomon and

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Schjellerup, respectively). The archaeological test of the documentary model needs to consider the pre-Inka settlement pattern in order to evaluate the overall impact of conquest and administration (see chapters 5 and 17, by Smit and Bauer, and Schjellerup, respectively). The full measure of imperial power should emphasize broad regional continuities and changes in a number of different social aspects. This chapter is intended to serve not as a comprehensive articulation and archaeological evaluation of a new ethnohistoric model for Inka highland administration, but rather as a critical presentation of the early documentary record, with a discussion of some salient archaeological perspectives based on the current database. A look at pre-Inka conditions across the Peruvian highlands provides the context for considering documentary accounts of Inka conquest and administration, and the subsequent archaeological discussion addresses specific points where early Spanish chronicles offer descriptions with material implications. Following the archaeological discussion, attention is given to areas where new archaeological data can be used to produce independent perspectives that go beyond the limitations of the documentary record. Organization of Pre-Inka Highland Societies In some colonial narratives of Inka origins, Tawantinsuyu arose suddenly on an uncivilized landscape characterized by universal decentralization and constant warfare. Prior to that, humans had cycled through various stages of creation and cultural development, beginning in a natural state, settling highland landscapes and introducing human culture, and resorting to internecine violence as populations grew and resources became scarce (e.g., Guaman Poma de Ayala [1615] 1980). Despite the fact that the earliest detailed accounts describe the Inkas as one of several highland societies with pretensions of regional dominance, modern scholars have often used the last “pre-Inka” stage (awkapacha) to conceptualize the situation in the highlands during the centuries prior to Inka expansion (a.d.  1000–1400) (fig. 6.1), even though it has long been recognized (Uhle 1912) that there were earlier states and empires. In the highlands, the florescence of the Tiwanaku and Wari states united parts of the central Andean highlands under central governments from the middle to

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some regions (e.g., the Colla and Lupaca areas of the Titicaca basin) appear to be correlated with increased instances of intergroup warfare and the construction of fortifications. With the noteworthy exception of the Cuzco region, the archaeological evidence for the Andean highlands in the LIP indicates that while some local leaders wielded ritual authority or had the ability to mobilize significant numbers of people to build defensive works or to fight, there are very limited materially identifiable status differences to be found in even the largest highland communities. Political centralization—visible archaeologically in complex regional settlement hierarchies, clear social stratification, and the construction of regular ritual architecture, palatial compounds, and public buildings or spaces—was limited or absent across the highlands, and local economies were managed by kin groups rather than noble mandate or state institutions. In their rapid expansion across the Andean highlands in the fifteenth century, the Inkas took advantage of local decentralization, diversity-oriented subsistence strategies, and population growth to develop imperial administrative strategies (Covey 2006).

Figure 6.1. Guaman Poma de Ayala’s depiction of the pre-Inka age of universal conflict. This seventeenth-century interpretation is at odds with archaeological evidence and the narratives of early chroniclers.

the end of the first millennium. Wari and Tiwanaku colonists introduced new subsistence practices, religious values, and administrative policies to certain parts of the highlands, but these early states failed to maintain their peripheral influence over time, and climatic fluctuations beginning around a.d. 1000 encouraged new patterns of subsistence and social organization in most highland areas (Covey 2008). Social strategies of the Late Intermediate Period (ca. 1000–1400; henceforth LIP) were successful in sustaining populations in the face of environmental uncertainty, and by a.d.  1250– 1300 some highland areas in Peru (e.g., Cajamarca and Huamachuco in the northern Peruvian highlands, and Xauxa and Asto in the central highlands) show evidence of large, nucleated villages and towns with populations in the thousands. Increased populations in

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Motivations and Methods of Inka Conquest Inka accounts of early campaigns often diverge from the awkapacha model of decentralization and universal warfare. Descriptions of the Cuzco region on the eve of empire state that the title capac (king) was widely used, and several sources identify groups with expansionist designs whose existence threatened Inka interests and justified conquest. Recent studies of the Chanka, Colla, and Lupaca regions (Arkush 2011; Bauer et al. 2010; Frye and de la Vega 2005) illustrate regional archaeological patterns that are completely at odds with colonial Inka narratives of defensive imperialism (see chapter 5, by Smit and Bauer). Inka legends of the Chanka cast them as an expansion-oriented confederation powerful enough to field armies for long-range campaigns of territorial conquest, but the LIP archaeology of the Chanka homeland reveals only modest villages—many located on the tops of ridges and mountains—that were not politically organized or economically oriented toward conquest warfare (Bauer et al. 2010). Likewise, Spanish chroniclers describe the Colla and Lupaca as pow-

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erful and wealthy kingdoms capable of mustering vast armies, while the archaeology shows the Titicaca basin to have been balkanized and organized around community defense at the time of the Inka conquest (Arkush 2011; Frye and de la Vega 2005). With new LIP data from areas of supposed early Inka rivals, the mounting archaeological evidence makes it difficult to accept several aspects of Inka conquest mythology at face value (Covey 2008). Rather than reacting to rival expansionist societies, the Inkas built on generations of political and economic consolidation in the Cuzco region (Bauer and Covey 2002; Covey 2006) and then took advantage of their superior numbers to overrun neighboring regions. This is in fact the explanation for Inka imperial origins that the colonial writer Polo de Ondegardo (1916:51) gave in 1571. Early chronicles describe the first imperial campaigns as occurring only a few times in a ruler’s lifetime, rather than annually. They were conducted to enhance the reputation of the ruler, and not necessarily to reduce other regions to direct Inka rule. The Inka ruler arranged necessary supplies in advance, and as many people as possible accompanied the army, which built roads and bridges as it progressed (Betanzos [1550s] 1999: pt. 1, chap. 18). Most regions mentioned in accounts of early campaigns were not under the rule of a single group, and the Inka army was often viewed locally as a means to crush rival groups. In many instances, one local group accepted or sought out an alliance with the Inkas (e.g., Cañas, Lupacas), leading their local rivals (Canchis, Collas, Soras) to shun Inka diplomacy and seek out their hilltop forts in the hopes of outlasting the foreign invaders (see Hayashida 2003 for a similar situation on the north coast). Such alliances were made possible by the fact that the Inka ruler was ready to accept local leaders as subordinates, provided that they acknowledged his dominion and accepted certain Inka institutions. Pedro de Cieza de León ([ca. 1550] 1988: chap. 17) states that new provinces had to adopt the Inka Sun cult, observe Inka law, and learn the Quechua language. Offers of alliance and rich gifts like gold vessels and fine cloth aided in the process of dividing and conquering decentralized highland regions. In describing the velvet glove of Inka diplomacy, Hernando de Santillán ([1563] 1968: no. 8) also exposes the iron fist lying beneath: those who did not voluntarily surrender their autonomy to the Inka and acknowledge his descent from the Sun would be crushed militarily and reduced to tributary service. Inka militarism changed over time, and the few

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grand campaigns of Pachacuti were followed in his old age by more frequent expeditions, directed by two or three of his sons, as new regions were targeted for conquest. Military service became a way for royal males to distinguish themselves, especially rulers’ sons born to secondary wives and consorts (Cieza de León [ca. 1550] 1988: chap. 10). Over time, indirect rule through local allies proved to be insufficient to maintain administrative order, as local lords sought their independence at times when Inka armies were engaged elsewhere. The disruptive process of royal succession could also encourage revolts, and many chronicles identify the succession of Tupa Inka Yupanqui as a time of widespread independence movements throughout the highlands (e.g., Betanzos [1550s] 1999: pt. 1, chap. 33). In the final decades of Inka rule, campaigns of reconquest used more brutal tactics and were accompanied by the introduction of direct administrative practices. Imperial Inroads and Highland Provincial Rule Early chronicles reveal some of the challenges to reconstructing the administrative history of a given Inka province. Provincial administration was established over several generations, creating a palimpsest that is difficult to untangle in respect to its ethnohistory and archaeology. Cieza de León ([ca. 1550] 1988) notes that the processes that consolidated Inka rule—the extension of imperial infrastructure and the implementation of state-mandated resettlement policies—acted more intensively on some areas than others over time. Early descriptions of state infrastructure and social transformation offer important contrasts that Inka scholars should take into consideration. The foundation of imperial infrastructure was a network of roads and bridges that was elaborated during military campaigns. Permanent connections between Cuzco and other regions altered the balance of power; for example, Juan de Betanzos ([1550s] 1999: pt. 1, chap. 18) recounts that the construction of a bridge over the Apurímac River was sufficient to induce several groups on the far side to submit to Inka rule. The highway network was primarily designed for moving troops and information, and a series of message posts (chaskiwasi) and way stations (tampu) was stocked with the necessary goods to feed and outfit messengers and soldiers on the move. As the Inka conducted new cam-

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paigns, they improved roads and built new ones (Cieza de León [ca. 1550] 1988: chap. 15). Many early eyewitnesses marveled at the ubiquity and volume of Inka storehouses (qollqa), which were intended to support Inka soldiers and administrators but also helped to provision the European invasion of the Andean highlands. When more direct forms of administration were introduced in provincial regions, the highway system also became an important means for carrying out the work of government—for moving provincial people and goods to the Cuzco region, and for sending out governors, inspectors, judges, and record-keepers from the capital. Whereas a way station would offer lodging and have modest amounts of stores stockpiled, administrative centers, placed a distance of several days’ journey apart, held greater resources and a much more extensive representation of Inka institutions, including an administrative palace, a garrison, a sun temple, an aqllawasi (a cloister for teaching provincial girls to weave and brew in the Inka fashion), workshops, and large storage facilities where the staple, craft, and wealth goods of the province were collected (Cieza de León [ca. 1550] 1988) (fig. 6.2). Administrative centers were places for encounters between Inka officials and the provincial populations governed by them. Inka administrative centers housed temples and cloisters of female ritual specialists, but it is important to note that the road network was also linked to key provincial sacred places (huaca) and served as a conduit for the selection of sacrificial victims (animals and humans), who traveled to Cuzco to be consecrated by the Inka ruler before being sent back out to provincial huaca locations to be dispatched. Given the inaccessibility of many important shrines, it is not surprising that some regional pilgrimage destinations were not on the imperial highway, but there were key temples and oracles along the highland route, such as the shrines to Viracocha at Urcos and Raqchi on the Collasuyu highway from Cuzco (fig. 6.3). Local huaca networks were more likely to be accessed by footpaths. Local Societies under Inka Rule Beyond the “corridors of power” established along the royal highway, the picture becomes much less certain. This is in part because early writers do not systematically identify imperial canons away from the highways, and in part because they discuss the Inka emphasis

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Figure 6.2. Guaman Poma de Ayala’s depiction of an aqllawasi complex.

on the divide between imperial nobles and provincial populations. Cieza de León ([ca. 1550] 1988: chap. 23) notes that local populations were encouraged to maintain their own particular costumes, and that while the distinction between rich and poor became blurred in the provinces under Inka rule, Inka nobles and high administrators accumulated vast wealth and administrative perquisites that set them apart. These included the right to ride in a litter (fig. 6.4) and to wear goods otherwise restricted by sumptuary laws (Cieza de León [ca. 1550] 1988: chaps. 19–20). Betanzos ([1550s] 1999: pt. 1, chaps. 12, 22) frequently describes village leaders (llaqtakamayuq) interacting directly with Inka nobles, rather than the kind of decimal hierarchy described in later chronicles, and Cieza de León mentions decimal organization only in regard to the ordering of Inka troops. The Inkas did not simply leave new territories under the rule of local lords and village leaders, especially if a region had been resistant to annexation. They removed some individuals from conquered societies as prisoners

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Figure 6.3. Surviving wall from the Inka temple to Viracocha at Cacha (Raqchi), built along the Collasuyu highway.

Figure 6.4. Guaman Poma de Ayala’s depiction of an Inka “viceroy” in his litter. His title, inkap rantin capaq apu, means “the lord king who stands in the place of the Inka.”

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of war, bringing many to the Cuzco region as permanent retainers (yanakuna) and perhaps slaves (piñas) (e.g., Betanzos [1550s] 1999: pt. 1, chaps. 6, 20; Cieza de León [ca. 1550] 1988: chap. 18). They also carried out widespread resettlement campaigns, which Cieza de León ([ca. 1550] 1988: chap. 22) links to three principal strategies: (1) pacifying newly conquered lands, (2) bringing new populations to places where state labor projects had intensified agricultural production or herding, and (3) establishing garrisons to hold the frontier against incursions by “savage” groups from the Amazonian slope and Chile (see chapter 17, by Schjellerup). The first type of these mitimaes (or mitmaqkuna) involved exchanges of populations between regions, with communities receiving resources in comparable (or, in some cases, complementary) environmental zones (e.g., Espinoza Soriano 1973). The second type brought labor to state farms and pastures (e.g., Wachtel 1982) and also involved the establishment of specialist communities (e.g., potters; Spurling 1992) in provincial contexts (see chapter 16, by Hayashida and Guzmán). The military colonies—the third type—were sometimes multiethnic communities and often had Inka nobles (orejones) living in them to command garrisons. Cieza de León is not explicit about the size of these groups, but colonial documents mention resettled communities that held from a few dozen to a few hundred individuals. Cieza de León ([ca. 1550] 1988: chap. 13) observes that the Inkas needed “great prudence” to govern a region that ranged from snowcapped mountains to dry desert and was inhabited by groups with distinct languages, laws, and religions. While discussing how flexible Inka imperial administration was, he and other early colonial writers offer some important areas for making comparisons with the significant and growing body of archaeological data from the Peruvian highlands. Archaeological Manifestations of Inka Power in the Peruvian Highlands The ethnohistoric description of Inka provincial administration articulated above has material implications that can be explored at multiple levels of analysis. For the purposes of the present discussion, it is useful to revisit the key attributes laid out in the ethnohistoric model in the light of current archaeological interpretations.

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Figure 6.5. A rehabilitated Inka road in the Cuzco region.

Highways and Lower-Order Facilities The Inka road system continues to be the most ubiquitous evidence of empire in the Peruvian highlands, although as Hyslop (1984) has noted, the concept of a “royal highway” encompasses a broad range of primary routes and trunk roads (e.g., fig. 6.5). Although new roads were built in many areas, much of the greater system included existing routes that were improved to varying degrees under Inka rule. Hyslop’s surveys of sections of the Inka highway and those conducted more recently, including the Peruvian Ministry of Culture’s Proyecto Qhapaq Ñan, confirm the presence of low-order facilities such as the chaskiwasi and tampu, the latter of which often have modest storage facilities (see LeVine 1992), as well as certain elements of the Inka architectural canon more commonly observed at administrative centers (Hyslop 1990) (figs. 6.6–6.7). Regional settlement surveys from the Titicaca basin

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Figure 6.6. The plaza and main architectural compound at Tambo Colorado, a major tampu on a trunk road from the Pacific coast to the highlands.

Figure 6.7. A small storage complex in the Cuzco region (from Covey and Amado 2008). Structures like this are found along the provincial highway network at way stations and administrative centers.

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to northern Peru (e.g., Sillar and Dean 2002:239; Herrera 2005; Stanish et al. 1997) indicate population shifts toward the imperial highway. This could be due to a number of factors, including state resettlement policies, economic opportunities provided by state intensification projects and the cessation of regional raiding, and logistical advantages for local populations who were required to provide labor service at state fields, road installations, and administrative centers. Administrative Centers The network of administrative centers from Ecuador to the Bolivian altiplano shows considerable diversity in the size and spacing of sites, as well as the manifestation of state architectural canons and public spaces (e.g., Arellano and Matos Mendieta 2007; see chapter 12, by Nair and Protzen). Although most Inka centers were reoccupied as Spanish colonial towns, the site of Huánuco Pampa represents a well-preserved provincial capital where mapping and extensive excavations offer perspectives on imperial power and influence (Morris et al. 2011; Morris and Thompson 1985) (fig. 6.8). Built at high elevation on an unoccupied plain, Huánuco Pampa was laid out around a huge central plaza delimited by accessways and key state institutions like a palace and aqllawasi complex (fig. 6.9). A massive ceremonial platform (ushnu) in the plaza center was probably used to review the assembly of tens of thousands of provincial people during periodic events at the site, but only a few state compounds show evidence of more than ephemeral occupation. As with other administrative centers, Huánuco Pampa has a large complex of storage structures, and local elites describe the transport of tribute to the site (and in the case of some goods, on to Cuzco). Most administrative centers were laid out as new settlements on the royal highway, and they appear to have been used to congregate provincial populations for encounters with high-ranking imperial officials, a practice that Morris (1972) has called “compulsory urbanism.” Day-to-day administration was entrusted to local officials, but the most significant governmental activities required provincial subjects to assemble periodically, sometimes at a significant distance from their homes and fields.

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Figure 6.8. Plan of the Inka administrative center at Huánuco Pampa. (By Craig Morris)

Figure 6.9. State compounds from Huánuco Pampa, a highland administrative center. The VB-5 aqllawasi was a cloister where provincial girls received instruction from women affiliated with the Sun cult, while the IIB complex represents a provincial palace where noble Inka administrators could interact with local officials.

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Religious Sites and Pilgrimage In addition to religious facilities at administrative centers, archaeological research has identified local sacred places incorporated into the Inka highway network (e.g., Huaytará, Sondor, Tiwanaku; see Stanish and Bauer 2004), as well as new Inka shrines near roadways (e.g., Intinkala and Orcohawira in the Copacabana peninsula; Arkush 2005) and lower-order huaca sites with evidence of Inka patronage or elaboration (e.g., Perales 2004). In the southern part of the empire, high-­ elevation human sacrifices mark the most prevalent evidence of Inka ritual patronage (Reinhard and Ceruti 2010)—these are most common in areas lacking Inka administrative centers with temple complexes. Detection of Mitimaes Archaeological investigations of colonist settlements in provincial regions have often yielded ambiguous results. Colonial documents provide the means for identifying colonist settlements in some regions (e.g., Grosboll 1993; Lavallée 1983; Spurling 1992), but archaeological investigations do not readily indicate clear material distinctions between local communities and colonists—even if regular architectural patterns are systematically observed, large samples of contempora-

Figure 6.10. Approximate locations of production for LIP (italics) and Inka ceramic styles in the Titicaca basin. Note that some areas show stylistic and formal continuity, while others reflect more Inka influence.

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neous “local” and “colonist” households still need to be excavated to compare domestic differences in material culture. Colonies are most easily identified close to the road network, especially in frontier regions where state styles can be well distinguished from local architecture and material culture patterns (e.g., Alconini 2004; Ogburn et al. 2009; see chapter 16, by Hayashida and Guzmán). Persistence of Local Communities and Limits of Inka Dominance Considering the ambivalence of evidence for Inka dominance away from the highway network, it is not surprising that local material culture often suggests limited Inka power. Settlement-pattern data in many regions suggest discontinuity and depopulation from LIP patterns—there is limited or no Inka-style pottery found at most lower-order sites, and an apparent decline of existing villages and towns (e.g., Bauer et al. 2010; Lavallée 1983). Given the short duration of the Inka occupation of many regions, such patterns may in fact reflect the limited distribution of Inka material culture, with local “pre-Inka” styles continuing to be produced and consumed in places where imperial styles had little influence (e.g., D. Julien 1993; Parsons et al. 2000; Valdez 2002; see Hayashida 2003). In many regions, local traditions and hybrid wares continued to be produced and distributed independently from Inka imperial polychromes; the archaeological designation of these styles is inconsistent at present (as “Inka,” “pre-Inka,” and “provincial Inka” styles). In the Titicaca basin, for example, a handful of local Inka styles were used alongside imperial ceramics: some (Sillustani, Chucuito, and Pacajes) show continuity with earlier local traditions, while others (Urcosuyu, Taraco) have a marked Inka influence (fig. 6.10). Like state pottery, Inka architectural canons are also unevenly distributed in local communities and are frequently seen in hybrid forms that suggest appropriation by local elites (e.g., DeMarrais 2005; Hyslop 1990; Morris and Covey 2006). At times, Inka enclaves or state installations are observed at existing local centers. Inka-style masonry and rectangular building forms are not common, but have been observed at some existing local sites (e.g., Abraham 2010; Albarracín-Jordan and Mathews 1990; Sillar and Dean 2002; see chapter 12, by Nair and Protzen). Overall, not enough published excavation work has

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looked at household units to enable comparison of the variable impacts of imperial conquest within communities and across regions (an obvious exception would be D’Altroy et al. 2001, as well as other Mantaro region literature).

Inka states and empires in the Andes (and compared with other world regions). Bibliography Abraham, Sarah

Continuing Questions and Future Prospects While the highland network of roads, bridges, way stations, and administrative centers indicates an imperial investment that is utterly unprecedented in earlier Andean states, the real measure of imperial power lies in the degree to which the lives of local societies were changed by Inka rule. Today, we can describe vastly different manifestations of imperial rule on the highland road network and beyond, and can compare conditions prior to Inka annexation with the signature of imperial rule. Rather than resolving questions about Tawantinsuyu’s highland domains, however, the new data bring new research questions into focus. Along the network of imperial infrastructure, new studies need to be conducted to investigate processes of resettlement, community structure, political economy, and the establishment of colonist and specialized production communities. As the archaeological database becomes more comprehensive and representative, it will be possible to move beyond the testing of ethnohistorical assertions to address aspects of Inka imperialism that were not recorded by early writers. Archaeological data from both sides of the imperial frontiers—including household data predating Inka incursions—need to be collected so as to reconstruct the growth of Inka territory over time. More excavation work needs to be done away from the corridors of Inka power to measure the impact of imperial rule on the daily life of people who continued to live far from administrative centers, and who appear to have absorbed little in the way of Inka material culture. In all contexts, the work of specialized analysts holds the key to explaining critical issues, including how Inka rule altered the circulation of people, goods, and technology, as well as the long-range effects of Inka rule on local social organization and environmental impact. Archaeologists still need to work out consistent measures of social power that are independent from the ethnohistoric record, but that can be used alongside documentary accounts and applied consistently to pre-

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2010

“Provincial Life in the Inca Empire: Continuity and Change at Pulapuco, Peru.” PhD diss., University of California, Santa Barbara.

Albarracín-Jordan, Juan, and James E. Mathews

1990 Asentamientos prehispánicos del valle de Tiwanaku, vol. 1. La Paz: CIMA. Alconini, Sonia

2004 “The Southeastern Inka Frontier against the Chiriguanos: Structure and Dynamics of the Inka Imperial Borderlands.” Latin American Antiquity 15:389–418. Arellano, Carmen, and Ramiro Matos Mendieta

2007

“Variations between Inka Installations in the Puna of Chinchayqocha and the Drainage of Tarma.” In Variations in the Expression of Inka Power, ed. Richard L. Burger, Craig Morris, and Ramiro Matos Mendieta, 11–44. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks.

Arkush, Elizabeth N.

2005

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Bauer, Brian S., and R. Alan Covey

2002 “Processes of State Formation in the Inca Heartland (Cuzco, Peru).” American Anthropologist 104:846–864. Bauer, Brian S., Lucas C. Kellett, and Miriam Araóz Silva

2010

The Chanka: Archaeological Research in Andahuaylas (Apurímac) Peru. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, University of California.

Betanzos, Juan de

(1550s) 1999  Suma y narración de los incas. Cuzco: Universidad Nacional de San Antonio Abad del Cusco. Burger, Richard L., Craig Morris, and Ramiro Matos Mendieta

2007 (eds.)  Variations in the Expression of Inka Provincial Power. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks. Cieza de León, Pedro de

(ca. 1550) 1988  El señorío de los incas. Ed. Manuel Ballesteros. Madrid: Historia 16. Cobo, Bernabé

(1653) 1964  Obras del P. Bernabé Cobo de la Compañía de Jesus, vol. 2. Ed. P. Francisco Mateos. BAE 92. Madrid: Atlas. Covey, R. Alan

2006 How the Incas Built Their Heartland: State Formation and the Innovation of Imperial Strategies in the Sacred Valley, Peru. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. 2008 “Multiregional Perspectives on the Archaeology of the Andes during the Late Intermediate Period (ca.

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a.d. 1000–1400).” Journal of Archaeological Research 16:287–338.

Julien, Catherine J.

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2001

“How Inca Decimal Administration Worked.” Ethnohistory 35:257–279.

Empire and Domestic Economy. New York: Kluwer Academic/Plenum.

“Late Pre-Inkaic Ethnic Groups in Highland Peru: An Archaeological-Ethnohistorical Model of the Political Geography of the Cajamarca Region.” Latin American Antiquity 4:246–273.

DeMarrais, Elizabeth

Lavallée, Daniele

2005

1983

“A View from the Americas: ‘Internal Colonization,’ Material Culture, and Power in the Inka Empire.” In Ancient Colonizations: Analogy, Similarity, and Difference, ed. H. Hurst and S. Owen, 73–96. London: Duckworth.

Diez de San Miguel, Garci

(1567) 1964  Visita hecha a la provincia de Chucuito por Garci Diez de San Miguel en el año 1567. Ed. Waldemar Espinoza Soriano. Documentos Regionales para la Etnología y Etnohistoria Andinas 1. Lima: Casa de la Cultura del Perú.

LeVine, Terry Y.

1992 (ed.)  Inka Storage Systems. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Morris, Craig

1972

Dillehay, Tom D.

1977

“Tawantinsuyu Integration of the Chillon Valley, Peru: A Case of Inca Geo-Political Mastery.” Journal of Field Archaeology 4:397–405.

Espinoza Soriano, Waldemar

1973

“Colonias de mitmas multiples en Abancay, siglos XV y XVI: Una información inédita de 1575 para la etnohistoria andina.” Revista del Museo Nacional 39:225–299. “The Altiplano Period in the Titicaca Basin.” In Advances in Titicaca Basin Archaeology 1, ed. Charles Stanish, Amanda B. Cohen, and Mark S. Aldenderfer, 173–184. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, University of California.

“State Settlements in Tawantinsuyu: A Strategy of Compulsory Urbanism.” In Contemporary Archaeology: A Guide to Theory and Contributions, ed. M. P. Leone, 393–401. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press.

Morris, Craig, and R. Alan Covey

2006 “The Management of Scale or the Creation of Scale: Administrative Processes in Two Inka Provinces.” In Intermediate Elite, ed. Christina M. Elson and R. Alan Covey, 136–153. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Morris, Craig, R. Alan Covey, and Pat Stein

2011

Frye, Kirk L., and Edmundo de la Vega

2005

“Historia de los Asto.” In Asto: Curacazgo prehispánico de los Andes centrales, ed. D. Lavallée and M. Julien, 25–47. Lima: IEP.

The Huánuco Pampa Archaeological Project, 1: The Central Plaza and Palace Complex. Anthropological Papers of the American Museum of Natural History 96. New York: American Museum of Natural History.

Morris, Craig, and Donald Thompson

1985

Huánuco Pampa: An Inca City and Its Hinterland. New York: Thames and Hudson.

Garcilaso de la Vega, “El Inca”

Murra, John V.

(1609) 1965  Los comentarios reales de los incas. In Obras completas del Inca Garcilazo de la Vega, ed. Carmelo Sáenz de Santa María. BAE 132–135. Madrid: Atlas.

(1956) 1980  The Economic Organization of the Inca State. Greenwich, CT: JAI Press.

Grosboll, Sue

1993

“. . . And He Said in the Time of the Ynga, They Paid Tribute and Served the Ynga.” In Provincial Inca: Archaeological and Ethnohistorical Assessment of the Impact of the Inca State, ed. Michael Malpass, 44–76. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press.

Guaman Poma de Ayala, Felipe

(1615) 1980  Nueva corónica y buen gobierno. 3 vols. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Hayashida, Frances

2003

“Leyendo el registro arqueológico del dominio inka: Reflexiones desde la costa norte del Perú.” Boletín de Arqueología PUCP 7:305–319.

Herrera Wassilowsky, Alexander Charles

2005

“Territory and Identity in the Pre-Columbian Andes of Northern Peru.” PhD diss., University of Cambridge.

Hyslop, John

1984 The Inca Road System. New York: Academic. 1990 Inka Settlement Planning. Austin: University of Texas Press.

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Ogburn, Dennis, Samuel Connell, and Chad Gifford

2009 “Provisioning the Inka Army in Wartime: Obsidian Procurement in Pambamarca, Ecuador.” Journal of Archaeological Science 36:740–751. Ondegardo, Polo de

(1571) 1916  Relación de los fundamentos acerca del notable daño que resulta de no guardar a los Indios sus fueros. Colección de libros y documentos referentes a la historia del Perú, ser. 1, vol. 3:45–188. Lima: Sanmartí. Ortiz de Zúñiga, Iñigo

(1562) 1967  Visita de la provincia de León de Huánuco, vol. 1. Ed. John V. Murra. Huánuco: Universidad Hermilio Valdizán. (1562) 1972  Visita de la provincia de León de Huánuco, vol. 2. Ed. John V. Murra. Huánuco: Universidad Hermilio Valdizán. Parsons, Jeffrey, Charles M. Hastings, and Ramiro Matos M.

2000

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Anthropology 34. Ann Arbor: Museum of Anthropology, University of Michigan. Perales Munguía, Manuel F.

2004 “El control inka de las fronteras étnicas: Reflexiones desde el valle de Ricrán en la sierra central del Perú.” Chungará 36:515–523. Reinhard, Johan, and María Constanza Ceruti

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Inca Rituals and Sacred Mountains: A Study of the World’s Highest Archaeological Sites. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, University of California.

Stanish, Charles, and Brian S. Bauer

2004 (eds.)  Archaeological Research on the Islands of the Sun and Moon, Lake Titicaca, Bolivia: Final Results from the Proyecto Tiksi Kjarka. Cotsen Institute of Archaeology 52. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, University of California. Stanish, Charles, Edmundo de la Vega M., Lee Steadman, Cecilia Chávez Justo, Kirk L. Frye, Luperio Onofre Mamani, Matthew T. Seddon, and Percy Calisaya Chuquimia

1997

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1946 “Inca Culture at the Time of the Spanish Conquest.” In Handbook of South American Indians, 2: The Andean Civilizations, ed. Julian Steward, 183–330. Bureau of American Ethnology Bulletin 143. Washington, DC.

Archaeological Survey in the Juli-Desagaudero Region of Lake Titicaca Basin, Southern Peru. Fieldiana Anthropology 29. Chicago: Field Museum of Natural History.

Uhle, Max

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“Los origenes de los incas.” In Actas del XVII Congreso Internacional de Americanistas, 302–352. Buenos Aires.

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Valdez, Lidio

(1563) 1968  Relación del orígen, descendencia, política y gobierno de los incas. BAE 209:97–149. Madrid: Atlas.

2002 “Y la tradición continua: La alfarería de la época inka en el valle de Ayacucho, Perú.” Boletín de Arqueología PUCP 6:395–410.

Santo Tomás, Domingo de

(1560) 1951  Lexicon, o vocabulario de la lengua general del Perú. Lima: Instituto de Historia. Sillar, Bill, and Emily Dean

2002 “Identidad étnica bajo el dominio inca: Una evaluación arqueológica y etnohistórica de las repercusiones del estado inka en el grupo étnico Canas.” Boletín de Arqueología PUCP 6:205–264. Spurling, Geoffrey E.

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“The Organization of Craft Production in the Inka State: The Potters and Weavers of Milliraya.” PhD diss., Cornell University, Ithaca, NY.

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Wachtel, Nathan

1982 “The Mitimas of the Cochabamba Valley: The Colonization Policy of Huayna Capac.” In The Inca and Aztec States, 1400–1800: Anthropology and History, ed. G. A. Collier, R. I. Rosaldo, and J. D. Wirth, 199–235. New York: Academic. Zuidema, R. Tom

(1964) 1995  El sistema de ceques del Cuzco: La organización social de la capital de los incas. Trans. Ernesto Salazar. Lima: PUCP.

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CHAPTER 7

Funding the Inka Empire Terence N. D’Altroy

In analyzing the economy that sustained the Inka Empire, we need to bear in mind that Andean peoples did not have a concept equivalent to the discipline of modern economics or many of its conventional components.1 Except in limited contexts, there was no market system, no notion of capital or of cost-setting supply and demand, no money,2 no means of buying or selling land or labor, and no formal theory of a political economy that sustained the state. Instead, the fundamental principles underlying Andean practice all entailed an inextricable link between social position and economic relationships, often legitimized through a moral imperative. Among them were labor obligations, shared and limited access to raw and productive resources, control over the products of labor, and commensal hospitality. Important roles for nonhuman actors (e.g., sky, terrestrial, and water deities; mountain spirits; oracles) and powers in human affairs were also implicated. Such an emphasis on social relations and nonmarket economics was common in premodern society. Significantly, in the Inka state economy, an approach based on controlling resources, labor, and distribution of products still entailed sophisticated planning. The Inkas are renowned for their long-term organizational strategies, which incorporated both a formal taxation system and decision-making about allocation of resources and efficiencies of production. The Inkas had to make choices among potentially competing goals, and questions of risk and transport cost perpetually entered the picture. In short, the Inka economy is amenable to comparative economic analysis, although along different lines than those often considered in emergent market or industrial economies. The essential features of the Inka economy were best described in Murra’s ([1956] 1980) classic work. As he explained, the economy was founded initially on

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the productive capacities of taxpayers who labored on discrete resources that the Inkas took for their exclusive use. In economic terms, the Inkas thought of their imperial venture as domination over peoples, whose resources were appropriated in the process. Each time they annexed a new ethnic group, the Inkas claimed virtually everything3 that lay within the new territory and allocated a portion back to the subject communities for their own sustenance and agendas. A key principle underlying the Inka logic was that subject communities would remain self-reliant. People received access to their traditional resources in return for labor service and homage to the ruler, who personified the state, and to the sun god. That idea was presented as a grand extension of the long-standing relationships that existed between many local lords and their people, who worked within frameworks of mutual obligation. By the time of the Spanish invasion in 1532, both the Inka state and official institutions also held discrete farmlands, pastures, and herds of the indigenous domesticated camelids, the llama and alpaca. Thus, the Inka Garcilaso de la Vega ([1609] 1966) could claim that the resources of the empire were divided into three parts, albeit not of equal extent. Even so, as Murra pointed out, the Inkas slowly transformed the economy in two crucial ways during their hegemony. First, the Inkas undertook a program of mass resettlement, by creating hundreds of internal and frontier colonies, members of which were assigned agro-pastoral, craft, or security duties (e.g., Espinoza S. 1970, 1973, 1983; D’Altroy 2005). Those workers—and even entire transplanted communities—produced vast quantities of textiles, metal goods, ceramics, wooden items, and composite objects. Second, the royal families, other Inka aristocrats, and ethnic lords developed estates that were worked by designated subject fami-

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Figure 7.1. The Inka Empire, showing the major roads and provincial installations, along with the four named parts (inset). (After Hyslop 1984: frontispiece)

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lies or communities (see chapter 13, by Niles). At the time the Spaniards invaded, those expansive manors, often scattered across complementary environmental zones, boasted large contingents of personnel who were assigned either permanently or as part of their rotating labor duties. Production from state, aristocratic, and institutional resources thus depended on the energies and technical expertise of an estimated two million selfsufficient taxpayers who were mobilized through labor taxes. The conditions that Andean peoples faced in carving out a living and that the Inkas encountered in their imperial quest were among the most demanding of any region where major civilizations arose. The Andean topography and climate interacted to provide extraordinary challenges and opportunities. Most importantly, the variegated landscape created a myriad of different micro-environments to which societies had to adapt their foraging, herding, fishing, and agricultural strategies. The scope of the difficulties was daunting, as the populace was working with a Bronze Age technology, and had no effective water or wheeled transport; about two thirds of them lived more than three thousand meters above sea level. The intent of this chapter is to explore how the Inkas dealt with those issues in supporting their imperial venture by discussing a series of key elements at the heart of the economy. Among them are the environmental and socio-technical foundation of the economy, the organization of production, the nature and distribution of services and products, and the infrastructure (fig. 7.1). In the process, both modern and Inka-era conceptions will be examined, in an attempt to approach an understanding of the decision-making processes that would have obtained at the time. Natural Resources The Inka imperial expansion ultimately brought about one million square kilometers of uncommonly variegated environments under their control, along the western edge of South America. Within this region lie three major climatic zones: a narrow coastal desert cut by river valleys; highland valleys and grasslands in the Andes mountains; and warm eastern slopes and lowlands. All three trend from a tropical north, in Ecuador, to a temperate south, in central Chile. The diversity within those broad zones arises in part because the collision of

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tectonic plates has created both the Andes mountains and a parallel deep Pacific trench. The mountains span the length of the continent, reaching a maximum height of 6,960 masl at Aconcagua, along the border between Argentina and Chile. Within this space the Inkas could draw upon three fundamentally distinct kinds of resources: raw materials (e.g., stone, water, minerals, wild biota), agro-­ pastoral products, and human labor and expertise. Collectively, those resources underwrote the Inka’s power and wealth, and were surely one of the driving forces in the empire’s creation, even if the Inkas were largely unaware of the scope of the Andes at the inception of their ventures. Pulgar Vidal’s (1987) widely used classification system for Peruvian environments recognizes eight basic land-use zones within this swath (cf. Tosi 1960; Troll 1968; Flannery et al. 1989). Each one exhibits a distinctive combination of climatic, biotic, and topographic properties, and thus each requires a different kind of strategy for effective exploitation (fig. 7.2). The frigid waters that well up northward along the coastline create one of the world’s richest marine biomes. From the first human occupations onward, onshore marine waters yielded rich harvests of anchovies and shellfish to simple net-fishing and gathering techniques. The terrestrial coastline (chala or costa in Pulgar Vidal’s classification) is bordered by a generally narrow strip of desert landscape (ranging from less than one to more than fifty kilometers in width) that extends from northern Peru to central Chile. While that band was successfully occupied for millennia through mixed maritime and terrestrial foraging, the population expanded substantially once irrigation agriculture was extensively applied, after about 1,800 b.c. The arid coastline is punctuated by a series of lush river valleys whose waters come primarily from rain that falls on the foothills above 1,600 masl. In those valleys, intensive irrigation has always been essential to agriculture, which in the periods under consideration included the industrial crops gourd and cotton, and staple crops such as maize, squash, and beans. The foothills on both sides of the Andes constitute the yungas zones (300–2,300 masl). Warmer than the coastal valleys, the yungas produce maize and tropical fruits, but the most valued crops are coca and peppers. Above the yungas lies the quechua zone (3,101–3,500 masl), the most agriculturally productive and densely populated highland ecozone. Because the temperate climate of valley floors is suitable for frost-sensitive crops,

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Figure 7.2. Cross-section of the Andes in central Peru, showing the principal land-use zones as described by Pulgar Vidal (1987). (After Burger 1992:21)

traditional dry farming produced maize, beans, garden vegetables, quinoa, and various root crops. About 60 percent of the pre-Hispanic population lived in this zone and above. The frosts above 3,500 masl can kill maize, so small valleys, quebradas, and rolling uplands are dedicated to chenopods, legumes, and tubers, especially the staple potatoes, which include almost five hundred varieties. Small-scale irrigation was common prehistorically in the quechua zone, drawing from springs and streams. The suni or jalca zone (up to 4,000 masl) is characterized by cold hills, ridges, and deep valleys that abundantly yield quinoa and talwi (aka tauri, tarwi, or chocho), which both produce nutritious seeds. The puna (up to 4,800 masl) is an alpine tundra that is the natural habitat of the Andean camelids. This cold and damp grassland was crucial to the Andean economy, as millions of llamas and alpacas were pastured there during the Inka era. Some hardy tubers can be cultivated in these high reaches, especially bitter tubers that provide a main source of chuño, or freeze-dried potatoes. Above the puna is the janca zone, which has been exploited for centuries for its abundant mineral wealth. The upper fringe of the Amazonian rainforest (montaña) and the lower jungle (selva) were also important ecozones during the pre-Hispanic era. The montaña

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produced maize, coca, fruits, and a host of other warmweather crops, while the forest was exploited by the Inkas more for natural products, such as wood, feathers, and gold. To the north of Peru, the coastal environment was characterized by mangrove swamps, while the wet, grassy highlands are called páramo. The temperate climate of the upland valleys makes them one of the world’s most pleasant regions to live in, and it is no surprise that the Inkas built their northern capital in southern Ecuador. The dominant feature to the south of the Peruvian sierra is the altiplano, which was home to great herds of camelids in Inka times. In the far south, the principal area of occupation was the valliserrana, a high zone of long desertic valleys, shrub forest, and puna that sustained a surprising density of communities. As productive as these Andean ecozones may be, they are chronically beset by potentially catastrophic events. In some highland areas, crops typically fail up to two-thirds of the time, while earthquakes, avalanches, and volcanic eruptions can be devastating. The most celebrated disturbance is the ENSO (El Niño Southern Oscillation climate pattern, comprising the warmerthan-normal condition [El Niño] and its opposite [La Niña]), which occurs periodically, but unpredictably. In

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an El Niño event, heavy rains fall on the Peruvian coast, sometimes washing out irrigation systems, while the warm tropical waters that arrive along the coast can kill or drive away much of the marine biota. While much of the foregoing description would have made sense to a pre-Hispanic Andean resident, it would have still been incomplete. Human relations with the environment were a constantly and carefully negotiated arena in Inka times. Some areas, especially the highland valleys (quechua zone), were thought to be a place of civilization, while the higher reaches were wild, uncivilized lands. The jungles to the east were the home of chaos and malevolent beings (see chapters 15 and 17, by Pärssinen and Schjellerup, respectively). The Inkas, their contemporaries, and their antecedents recognized a host of nonhuman factors involved in agro-pastoral and other kinds of economic production. Most important were the numerous gods, spirits, and forms of consciousness that inhabited the skies, water, and land and whose goodwill was necessary to ensure human well-being. In Inka eyes, for example, the mountain peaks (apu, wamani) were the owners of the flocks and the providers of weather and water (Reinhard 1985). Similarly, the earth mother (Pachamama) was propitiated with offerings of coca and maize beer (chicha or awasqa), and the sea and lakes also had their own deities, as did the skies and weather. The Productive Foundations of the Inka Economy Since the Inka imperial economy was initially founded on the productive capacities and practices of the societies that were incorporated into Tawantinsuyu, it will be helpful to sketch out the highland economies present at the time of the Inka expansion. The essential socioeconomic unit of central Andean life was the ayllu. It was a corporate kin group that was often internally ranked, so that individual families or lineages could hold positions of elevated or subordinate status. The leaders of the ayllu were called curaca, a term generally glossed as “lord.” Ayllu varied considerably in size but could boast from a few score to as many as several thousand members. They were not precisely commensurate with residential communities, since members of an ayllu could live in several settlements, while a single town could house members of several ayllu. Broadly speaking, the highland economies on which

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the Inkas modeled their state economy were generalized in their agro-pastoral activities and only modestly specialized in artisanry (see chapter 16, by Hayashida and Guzmán, for a contrasting situation on the north coast of Peru). The ayllu held its productive resources in common: for example, agricultural and grazing lands and sources of clay or stone. Ayllu often tried to control resources in complementary ecological zones (Murra 1972). In so doing, they were able to spread risk across different kinds of production, gain access to a variety of products, and maintain self-sufficiency. Usufruct access to those resources was allocated to each household by the ayllu leaders on the basis of status and family need. Higher-status families could receive a greater share than the commoner families and, to judge from Colonial-era documents, often had access to resources across a wider range of environmental zones. Specialization in services was apparently rare among those communities, apart from the household service to which the elites were entitled. The upper crust had rights to have their lands worked, herds tended, and some craft products manufactured, in return for their leadership (Murra [1956] 1980). Besides their kin relationships, the unifying glue of the ayllu was a series of mutual obligations, so that economic relations had an essential moral component (see Trawick 2001). Among the general populace, the group members shared labor on tasks such as agriculture and canal maintenance. The balanced reciprocity seen in those tasks was called waje waje; the core principle was that households of equal status would exchange services in expectation of an equivalent return. There were also asymmetrical labor exchange relationships (minka), which linked households of different statuses (e.g., lord and subject) or social standing (in-laws). In minka exchange, inequality between the parties lay at the heart of the relationship. The elite members of the ayllu were expected to provide certain kinds of services and goods in return for their privileged status. In addition to military and ritual leadership, the lords were supposed to provide such prized materials as cloth and chicha (maize beer) to their constituent populace. Because the elites often had access to productive resources out of the reach of many people, they were expected to provide those products as part of their obligations. A particularly important item was coca leaf, which was grown in limited ecological contexts on either side of the mountains and whose fields were often controlled by the curaca. Those valued items were

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frequently distributed in the context of feasting sponsored by the lord. Ultimately, those distributions— often called “redistribution” in this context—provided a means of bonding groups and reinforcing social inequality. These relationships of unequal duty provided the rationale by which the Inkas extracted labor from those same communities under imperial rule. In a number of recorded cases, where the ayllu did not have access to key resources, such as salt or lowland products, longdistance exchange provided a means by which they could be procured. Application of the General Labor Tax As just noted, the initial foundation of the Inka state economy lay in the labor and expertise of subject societies, applied to resources that the Inkas expropriated for their own use. The core principles of Inka economic logic, as applied to the basic tax, included the following: (1) each subject society would be responsible for its own well-being; (2) each household enumerated in periodic censuses would be responsible for rendering labor service on a rotating basis (mit’a); (3) the Inkas would be responsible for supporting workers while they discharged their duties; (4) the Inkas would derive their material goods from institutional resources, not taking any directly from the subject societies; and (5) the Inkas would provide leadership and generosity as their part of the mutual relations between lord and subject.

The heart of state revenues was thus labor, both skilled and general, applied to independent state-held resources. As Murra (1958) has pointed out, this rationale for economic governance was essentially the extension of the existing local relations to an imperial scale. Whether any subject society bought into that argument is an open question. The basic tax-paying unit was a married couple. Generally speaking, households owed two to three months of service when called, although military service in particular could demand lengthy tours away from home. Because the general taxes were assessed in terms of labor, we can easily lose sight of the fact that

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the taxes were not constant. As the chronicler Cobo ([1653] 1979:234) explained, the Inkas regularly made an assessment of their anticipated needs for products and services. Taking into account the personnel available, they then determined the amount of seed to be sown or labor exactions to be required for the coming year, announcing them at an annual sponsored festival held at state facilities. This approach meant that administrative personnel up and down the chain of command needed to be kept current on local conditions, which in turn required frequent censuses and updates on productivity and stored materials (see chapter 9, by Urton). By 1532 the array of duties rendered by subject households was diverse, but it can be broken down into a few basic categories: agro-pastoral labor, military duty, transport, craft production, and personal services. Itemized lists provided by the chroniclers Falcón ([1567] 1946:137–140), Murúa ([1613: bk. 2, ch. 21] 1987:402–404), and Guaman Poma ([1613:191–193] 1980:183) specify up to forty different kinds of labor service due the state, not including agricultural and military services, which likely demanded the greatest input. Falcón noted that coastal societies included specialists responsible for human sacrifice; miners; people who worked with stones, colored earth, and salt; artisans, including weavers, sandal-makers, potters, woodworkers, and masons; guards for the Women of the Sun, priestesses, llamas, and storehouses; coca farmers; and fishermen (see also Rostworowski 1989). Other highland specialists were people who served the bodies of the deceased Inkas, and artisans who made earspools and cords of lead that the rulers played with. One of the repeated elements of the lists, seen also in inventories of goods in storage facilities, is that production of distinct qualities of products (e.g., fine and common cloth or ceramics) was listed as a separate duty (see chapter 11, by Phipps, on the production of different-quality textiles). Labor assignments took into account both the scale of the available population and the environmental characteristics of the region where the activities were being conducted (LeVine 1987). Julien (1982) points out that the Inkas sometimes reorganized the populace into administrative units that were convenient for labor mobilization. Typically, provinces had multiple units of ten thousand households each, generally twenty or thirty thousand. There are some indications that service levies were applied to units of one thousand

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households, while production of material things was distributed among units of one hundred, most likely because the smaller units were more attuned to ecological variations. The kinds of labor duties that particular ethnic groups rendered were also tailored to the kinds of resources or skills that they were thought to have. The laborers assigned to categories in the 1549 Huánuco visita (inspection) provide insight into how one provincial population met its obligations. The 4,108 Chupachu male laborers can be grouped as follows: 15.0 percent (640) to extract natural materials, 13 percent (560) to manufacture material goods, 22.9 percent (980) to cultivate state fields, 9.4 percent (400) to build or maintain the physical infrastructure, and 39.7 percent (1,698) to provide services that did not yield a material product (e.g., guard duty). In practice, of course, there was far more complexity to the Inka economy than this outline suggests. For one thing, even though the Inkas laid exclusive claim to all wild and mineral resources, they never actually enforced a state monopoly. Quite a number of subject lords had their own mines, for example, and used their ores to make gifts for the ruler, among other things (Berthelot 1986). In addition, the Inkas tried in many areas to develop lands that had previously not been used to support local communities, thus alleviating some stresses on their subjects. Such a practice could not be applied to the flocks, however, and the Inkas requisitioned large numbers of camelids from the peoples of the altiplano in order to build their own herds. In addition, the local lords drafted into state duty were given a fair amount of discretion in allocating duties within their own domains. That policy gave them both tremendous leverage with their people and a vested interest in keeping the Inka overlords happy. Specialized Labor Institutions The standard labor tax provided an enormous array of materiel and services for the state as a whole (personified as the ruler) and for the state religion of the sun. Even so, the Inkas apparently felt those contributions to be insufficient, as the levies were expanded and diversified to meet an increasing array of aristocratic and institutional demands. In his classic thesis, Murra ([1956] 1980) described the changes as a large-scale shift from

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corvée to retainership. The reasoning behind the reorganization stemmed in part from a desire to make the state economy as independent as possible from the subject economies. Among the key goals may have been enhancing security and dampening resistance, since there were evidently problems with compliance among the subjects, particularly for service in distant locations or for prolonged periods (see chapter 6, by Covey). In addition, the ever-expanding estates of Inka and provincial aristocrats required staffing, as did a variety of institutions. While some elements of the shift toward retainership may have been instituted relatively early in the imperial era, the major elaboration of dedicated work cadres apparently occurred under the direction of emperor Huayna Capac, whose multidecade reign ended about five years before the Spanish arrival. The two most important statuses of dedicated workers that the Inkas developed were based on distinct criteria. The yanakuna were individuals—or in rarer instances large groups of people—who were separated from their homeland or kin group on a permanent basis. At least in some cases, conversion into a yana was intended as a punishment. Although these individuals were no longer counted on the census rolls at home, their status was not inherited by their offspring, who seem to have retained residual rights in their traditional society. Yanakuna were allotted duties through their assignment to particular aristocrats or institutions, most often farming, herding, and household service for the elites. The grandest-scale conversion of a subject group into yanakuna of which we are aware occurred when more than four thousand Chupachu were converted wholesale into yanakuna by the ruler Huascar, for his own personal service ( Julien 1993:209). Although colonial and modern writers often considered the yanakuna to be slaves, they could achieve high-status positions under Inka rule. In contrast, mitmaqkuna were families or entire communities who were transplanted as colonists to meet military, political, economic, and ideological goals (see Espinoza Soriano 1973, 1975, 1983; Rowe 1982; D’Altroy 2005; see further below). By the end of the Inkas’ century-long run of power, somewhere around three to four million people had been resettled. Many of them had simply moved from hilltop communities to more hospitable locations at lower elevations following the Inka pacification of the land. However, Cobo’s estimate that one-third of the Andean population was resettled under the mitmaqkuna program pro-

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Figure 7.3. Identifiable locations from which colonists were resettled at the sanctuary of Copacabana.

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Figure 7.4. Resettlement of colonists to two major state farms, at Abancay and Cochabamba.

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Figure 7.5. Distribution of major colonies of state artisans named in the early colonial documents.

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vides some measure of the massive scope of the state enterprise. The net result was to reconstitute the Andean social landscape. Mitmaqkuna retained status as members of their home communities and were counted as such by their home curaca, although the governors of the provinces into which they moved were also supposed to keep track of them so that their labor service was appropriately tabulated. In theory, service could be for a limited period of time, but it was sufficiently resented that abandonment of their duties seems to have been an ongoing issue, since the Inkas instituted penalties for second-time offenders. The inception of the resettlement program, like many other aspects of Inka state policy, was attributed to the legendary imperial founder, Pachacuti. Reportedly, his goal was to reduce local resistance by resettling uncooperative peoples in distant locations as garrisons, where their own well-being would depend on staying in the good graces of their overlords. That policy had the additional advantage of limiting the potential for coordinated resistance among subject peoples. Over time, the Inkas also used resettlement to imprint their vision of the order of the world on the empire. To that end, they resettled members of multiple ethnic groups in twelve districts around the heart of Cuzco in a layout that mimicked the societies’ distribution in the entire domain. Conversely, they exported the center to the provinces, creating six “new Cuzcos” laid out (conceptually) in the form of the Inkas’ home capital. They also resettled members of at least fortytwo ethnic groups into the sacred center at Copacabana, on the southeast shore of Lake Titicaca (Ramos Gavilán [1621] 1976; fig. 7.3). The importance of this center lay in its role as the entryway to the Islands of the Sun and the Moon, the origin place of the Inka world. Economic rationales may have taken on a more important role for colonization in the latter years of the empire, especially under the direction of Huayna Capac. A wide array of references to mitmaqkuna in early colonial documents cite economic production as the rationale for resettlement, especially in areas where particularly rich natural resources could be exploited. Those included farmlands, pastures, and locations of valued mineral resources. For example, major farms were established in Abancay (Peru) and Cochabamba (Bolivia), whose products were reportedly intended for Huayna Capac’s armies (fig. 7.4). The former specialized in growing maize, coca, cotton, and peppers, while the latter was dedicated to maize farming. Among

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the artisans were potters from fourteen different ethnic groups on the coast, who were resettled in the adjacent highland valley of Cajamarca to make ceramics for the state. At Milliraya, alongside Lake Titicaca, the Inkas resettled one thousand weavers to make fine cloth for the state in the heart of camelid country, along with one to three hundred potting families (fig. 7.5; Espinoza Soriano 1970, 1973; Wachtel 1982; Spurling 1992). A large colony that was settled along the eastern fringes of the empire, in Bolivia, illustrates how the program was applied to royal estates. The workers there were assigned to produce gold for one of Tupa Inka Yupanqui’s royal estates, rather than for the state itself. Of the six thousand families assigned to that operation, only one thousand were dedicated to mining the gold itself; the remainder were there to sustain the whole enterprise. Even at that scale, however, the mining colony was much smaller than the farm at Cochabamba. The latter boasted fourteen thousand workers, although how many of those were permanent and how many were temporary is unclear. There were other institutions to which the Inkas dedicated personnel, most importantly what are often described as religious orders. The aqllakuna were young women who were separated from their families before puberty and assigned to live in segregated precincts within state installations. There, they were trained in a range of culturally respected roles, wove cloth, and brewed chicha, until they were awarded in marriage to men honored by the state (Morris 1974; see chapter 11, by Phipps). The Inkas also took advantage of what they saw as particular skills of ethnic groups and committed them to special tasks. For example, the Rucanas were employed as litter bearers, the Colla as stonemasons, and the Chumbivilcas as dancers. Over time, particularly skilled or belligerent ethnic groups were committed wholesale to military duty. Each emperor had his own guard, often made up of such dedicated groups. The Chachapoyas, Cañaris, Chuyes, and Charkas stood out as warriors (Rowe 1946), while the Quillacingas of the tropical forests were especially valued because they would eat their enemies. The Inka Herds Just as important to the Inkas as their agricultural lands were their llama and alpaca herds. The camelid flocks

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lay at the heart of the state economy, as they had utilitarian, status, and ritual value. The Inkas devoted a considerable amount of their subjects’ labors to the breeding of large herds, but how large those herds were is still uncertain. The chronicler Román y Zamora (1897:122) wrote that the Sun had more than a million animals, which might be a fair estimate. A figure of 31–50 million camelids is frequently cited for the pre-Hispanic era (see Bonavia 2008), so an overall Inka holding in the millions seems like a reasonable figure. Creating those herds required requisitioning substantial numbers from their subjects (Polo [1571] 1916:61–62), since there were no free-roaming flocks that could be brought under state control. Murra ([1956] 1980:52) has suggested that the Inkas drew most heavily from the altiplano, since that was the location of the largest available flocks in their domain. It may therefore have been no accident that the Titicaca basin was one of the early prime target areas for Inka expansion. In the early Colonial era, the Charkas people, living in the southern altiplano and the Huamanga valley of southern Peru, complained that the Inkas had done grievous harm to their ancestors by taking their herds. The utilitarian value of the llamas lay in their wool, their meat, and their service as transport animals. The evidence suggests that the military were prime users of the llamas: in pack trains, for clothing, and for food at the end of the line. When they were on the move, the military employed thousands of llamas as pack animals, which were then eaten when their service was no longer required. The trains could be immense. For example, the chronicler Zárate ([1555] 1862) reported that the Inka general Quizquiz abandoned about fifteen thousand animals in the eastern mountains after a battle early in the Colonial era. Intensification of Productive Resources An essential part of the Inka economic enterprise was an extensive program to intensify productive resources. Their approach to the issue was grounded in an intimate understanding of the natural environment, seasonal cycles, their crops, and the engineering of land surfaces and water. At the same time, they saw a host of nonhuman forces implicated in productivity, as they understood themselves to be living in a socialized, active landscape in which a living past was constantly

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being inscribed and interacted with. In modern terms, the Inkas intensified production primarily by bringing unused or underused lands into production and through manipulation of landforms and water. In Inka eyes, they were also civilizing the landscape, in which dangerous powers resided. Under Inka rule, vast tracts of land were cultivated that had previously been off-limits because of either regional discord or lack of development. For example, in the upper Mantaro valley of Peru’s central highlands, the productive valley floor between Xauxa and Huancayo (a stretch of about 50 km) was radically underused during the latter part of the Late Intermediate Period (LIP). Those lands had been occupied for centuries beforehand and would be the focus of occupation during the Colonial era, but the fractious politics of the LIP led to their abandonment for a couple of hundred years. Under Inka rule, an area with a radius of about 15 kilometers around the provincial center of Hatun Xauxa was apparently dedicated to state farms, whose contents were stored in a massive array of warehouses on the adjacent slopes (D’Altroy 1992; fig. 7.6). Similarly, the Inkas created vast state farms—at Abancay (Peru) and in the western part of the Cochabamba valley (Bolivia)—whose products were reportedly intended solely for Huayna Capac’s armies. At CoctacaRodero ( Jujuy, Argentina), the Inkas appear to have directed the construction of about six square kilometers of terraces in an area that had not previously been occupied, but the project was never completed (Albeck and Scattolín 1991). In the case of some of those state farms (see also mitmaqkuna, below), the resident population was forcibly removed or eradicated. The former seems to have been the case in western Cochabamba, whereas the recalcitrant Ayaviri (southern Peru) were essentially wiped out and their lands confiscated. As Earls and Cervantes describe more expansively in this volume (chapter 8), the Inkas’ construction of terracing stands as one of their singular accomplishments. Whether it was at the scale of Coctaca-Rodero or with the elegance of the estate terracing at Pisac, Ollantaytambo, and Machu Picchu (see chapter 12, by Nair and Protzen), the Inkas clearly considered terracing to be a matter worthy of considerable attention and labor investment. There are several obvious reasons for their interest. The rough Andean terrain is often lacking in farming-friendly surfaces. and the topsoil is poor or thin. Terracing solves both problems. In addition, the

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Figure 7.6. Distribution of major state farms and storage facilities throughout the empire.

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terraces serve as a heat sink and retain humidity, ameliorating the effects of the cold mountain nights. Earls and Cervantes (chapter 8) provide detailed empirical evidence in support of this claim. At Ollantaytambo, Protzen (1993) reported that the ambient temperature of terraced lands was raised 3°C over that of adjacent unterraced surfaces. That amounts to a downward shift of about six hundred meters in elevation in the crops that can be grown. Small wonder that the estates in the “Sacred Valley” (Vilcanota [aka Urubamba] valley east and north of Cuzco) could grow peanuts and other warm-weather crops normally found only on the other side of the mountains. Despite the labor involved and the sometimes spectacular results, we should not overstate the importance of formal terracing. Kendall and her colleagues found in the Cusichaca area, for example, that informal terracing and lynchets (informal terraces created through the construction of a berm, behind which soil accumulates over time) covered far more land surface than did the labor-intensive, stone-faced terraces so emblematic of royal estates. Perhaps of comparable importance to the engineering successes of terracing and canal construction (e.g., Wright et al. 2006; Wright and Valencia Zegarra 2000) was the social and ideological value of the improved lands. Royal estates, whether in the Vilcanota valley or distributed throughout the empire, boasted a series of architectural signatures (e.g., step tenons in terrace faces; dual-canal fountains) that spoke to the terracing as the cultural imprint of the Inkas on the land. The Inkas had a complicated relationship with the landscape (see chapters 8, 10, and 12, by Cummins, Earls and Cervantes, and Nair and Protzen, respectively). It was the home of spirits and the ancestors, with whom amicable and frequent relationships were a necessity; points on the landscape surrounding Cuzco were referred to in terms of kinship and body parts (van de Guchte 1999). The entire array of shrines surrounding Cuzco—duplicated analogically by hundreds of other Andean societies—was a conceptual map of the Inka past, the cosmos, and social relations (see chapters 8 and 9, by Earls and Cervantes, and Urton, respectively). Large parts of the Andes were uncivilized and dangerous, however. The high janca zone was held to be wild, while the eastern forests were the land of chaos and danger. One part of the Inka venture was, therefore, to domesticate or civilize the land by transforming it. Viewed in this light,

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terracing was as much a cultural statement of power as it was a means of improving production. Things/Objects We have already noted that the Inka economy produced both material things and services. Looking at Inka craft production in terms of scale, we would certainly say that the state was involved in underwriting industriallevel manufacture. However, mass production was not the result of efforts to reduce costs in a market economy. Instead, large-scale production combined utilitarian value, social messages, and artistry in a wide variety of forms. The Inkas required production of an enormous range of goods, from various grades of cloth, to some thirty kinds of pottery vessels (fig. 7.7), trapping snares, clothing for soldiers, gold and silver idols, stone braziers, sandals—in short, everything that the state needed for its activities. The principal goods that the state required were probably textiles, which marked social identity and status and were used for data recording, among many other purposes (Murra 1962, 1989). Ceramics, the most plentiful of the objects produced that are preserved today, apparently had far fewer individuals dedicated to their manufacture. The evidence we have available suggests that the Inkas were very precise about how many artisans were to be put to work at any given task. For example, some early Spanish documents indicate that at particular enclaves, ten times as many weavers were dedicated to making cloth as were committed to potting. In thinking about Inka objects, we also need to keep in mind that contemporary classifications of artifacts by material probably mislead us as to the ways that the Inkas thought about many of these items. Some fabrics were adorned with feathers or beads of metal and shell, while metals were inlaid with stone and shell, painted, adorned with feathers, or dressed in cloth (Dransart 2000). In fact, the essence of the objects may have come into being only when the appropriate materials were combined. As has been well documented, the Inkas used all these goods as instruments of imperial policy. They developed highly distinctive styles of ceramics, textiles, and metal and stone objects, whose geometric designs lent themselves to replication by state-sanctioned artisans (Morris 1995; Cummins 2007; see chapters 10 and

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Figure 7.7. The variety of Inka imperial ceramic forms found at the royal estate of Chinchero, near Cuzco. (After Rivera 1976)

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11, by Cummins and Phipps, respectively). The most obvious of such items were the fancy tapestry-weave cloth called cumbi and the goblets of wood, gold, and silver that were given as gifts to compliant subject elites and individuals who had distinguished themselves in state service. Less obvious was the control of hospitality and cuisine imposed by the use of state vessels and foods in the context of politically charged commensal feasts (e.g., Bray 2003). By producing the maize beer (chicha or, more properly, aqha) that lubricated public feasts in vessels of state design, emphasizing the production of the sacred crop, and exporting Cuzco-area crops to all parts of the empire, the Inkas developed a way of imprinting their cultural stamp on the provinces through social practice. While many objects can easily be described as utilitarian or status goods, the Inkas had a more complex relationship with material things than is implied by those two notions (Sillar 2009). For one, the Inkas saw a variety of things as having consciousness, intentionality, and the ability to act. Among them were the brother images (wawqi) of the rulers and the objects/ idols (bultos) that stood in for a number of historical figures (Ziółkowski 1996). Those items—made of stone, gold, or the clippings of the ruler’s nails and hair, for example—had the ability to speak for the ruler and seem to have been regarded as a direct extension of the ruler’s persona. Similar kinds of consciousness were seen in features of the landscape, especially stones. In addition, a number of material things were infused with camay, that is, the capacity to create or even to instill vitality into something else (Cummins 2002; Bray 2009). Many found objects, such as ore nuggets or oddly shaped stones, were also thought to be imbued with the power to effect outcomes. It is also worth considering, briefly, what the Inkas did not manufacture. Most significantly, they made few, if any, representations of personally identifiable humans. There were some images of humans on textiles, perhaps as rock art in caves, and as male and female idols buried in shrines and capacocha offerings (a sacred ceremony performed in times of momentous change or great need, in some instances involving the sacrifice of children or adolescents). However, the paucity of human representation in public view or in contexts in which royal accomplishments were often recorded in other early empires—for example, friezes, murals, monuments—is striking. I have argued elsewhere (D’Altroy 2010, n.d.) that such practice probably

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arose because of the Inkas’ interest in dividing different kinds of cultural arguments into things that could be given material existence, that were left to immaterial expressions (e.g., speech, genealogies, oral sagas), and that were performed (e.g., rituals). Given that so much of the Inka economy was dedicated to services that leave little material trace—about 40 percent in the labor censuses for which we have evidence—and that they avoided making certain sorts of objects, we need to keep the balance of the material and nonmaterial in mind when considering the overall structure of state economics. The Infrastructure The imperial economic enterprise would not have functioned without an elaborate infrastructure of as many as two thousand provincial centers and secondary facilities, storehouses, and a vast road network that integrated them into a single system (see fig. 7.1; see chapter 6, by Covey). A number of principles at the core of the Inka economy required that the infrastructure be developed so extensively. (1) Taxes were largely extracted as labor. The services aside, the material products of taxation were largely bulky goods, such as food, textiles, and other artisanal objects. (2) Andean transportation capabilities were inefficient in comparison to those of empires elsewhere in the world. There was essentially no effective water, mounted, or wheeled transport, so human carriers and llama caravans moved the vast bulk of materials for the Inkas. (3) No general-purpose money was employed in the state economy. Subjects could not be taxed in specie, and there were no markets in which the state or its agents could make purchases. A variety of special commodities were in circulation, such as textiles and coca, but their utility was limited to particular social contexts. We may be at the limit of reasonable description to call some of them (e.g., coca, salt) consumable currencies. (4) The Inka efforts to create an independent state economy meant that supplies could not be requisitioned from the subject population on a regular basis, and bulky goods could not be consistently moved long distances. (5) The spatial distributions of productive resources within the empire (e.g., farmlands, pastures, sources of clay and metal) were not necessarily congruent with needs.

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Collectively, those features meant that most of the economic resources raised by the Inkas were spatially limited in their range of use and their fungibility. Many elements of the imperial economy thus had to be replicated throughout the domain. The Inkas solved these problems largely by dedicating particular resources and the personnel to work them, province by province, under the supervision of governors and subordinate elites. The state installations served several key economic functions in the process (Morris 1972; Hyslop 1990). For one, they were the locations in which a great deal of craft production took place, either by dedicated service personnel such as the aqllakuna or by rotating laborers. For another, those installations provided sustenance for itinerant personnel, such as the military or people traveling on state business, out of the goods stored in massive facilities. On the reciprocal side, the provincial centers were the locations where state hospitality was conducted, sometimes on a scale of many thousands, and where the administrative acts of assigning labor duties were carried out. The storage complexes themselves were massive, perhaps paralleled on a global scale only by the vast warehouses that the Roman Empire maintained to sustain the plebian populace of Rome and environs (LeVine 1992). Hundreds of facilities were built, the largest ones apparently located around Cuzco, to feed and supply the capital’s residents and support personnel (see fig. 7.6). In the provinces, facilities of many hundreds, and even in the low thousands, of structures were built near major farms and state centers. The twenty-five hundred structures at Cochapata, Bolivia, adjacent to the farms of Cochabamba, and the three thousand storehouses in Peru’s upper Mantaro valley stand out for their scale. In their warehouses, the Inkas kept food, raw materials, finished crafts, weapons, and virtually everything that they could anticipate needing and that would not deteriorate over the short term. The forty-thousand-kilometer road network tied the whole empire, and thus its economy, together. Studies by Hyslop (1984) and others have documented the remarkable planning and engineering that went into the design of the system. Paved and demarcated surfaces, staircases, suspension bridges, canals, causeways, terraces, elevated foundations, and a host of other technical improvements greatly facilitated the movement of personnel and goods over the rough Andean terrain. Even so, there were constriction points—such as the woven, hanging bridges—where even the best Inka

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technology could not get past topographic constraints that slowed movement significantly. Thus, the road network was highly effective and far more efficient than anything that had existed previously, but it was much less efficient than transport systems seen elsewhere in the ancient world. Concluding Comments How, then, do we characterize the overall nature of the Inka economy, especially in a comparative framework? Several alternative theories have support, each emphasizing a different element of the organization and each with something to offer. The predominant approach since the mid-­twentieth century is known as lo andino, or “the Andean way” (e.g., Murra 1975). This perspective emphasizes the distinctive nature of Andean life, especially the sociopolitical principles that organized economic relationships and behaviors. In this view, factors such as energy expenditure, transport costs, and exchange values are subordinated in their explanatory utility to social hierarchy, resource sharing, group membership, complementarity between genders, and labor exchanges. Inka economics were therefore socially structured, based on the imposition of unequal exchanges and obligations between lord and subject. Marxist scholars stress the coercion, exploitation, and tensions between the upper and lower classes inherent in the imperial organization. In particular, they focus their analyses on the massive confiscation of resources, expropriation of labor by a predatory elite, and control of workers’ products by coercive means (e.g., Godelier 1974; Espinoza Soriano 1978; Patterson 1991). In their view, the Inkas’ material demands led them to impose a household labor tax, but the tensions intrinsic to that relationship of inequality led them to create the labor enclaves. That is, the Asiatic mode of production at the heart of the imperial economy led to an ongoing restructuring of social relations and the need for an elaborate, obfuscating ideology. Although Marxists accept that some of the Andean conditions were particular to the region, they view Inka imperial economics as an example of a pattern found worldwide, in which the material and political goals of a rapacious elite result in exploitation on a massive scale. Alternatively, we may argue that Inka economic decisions were based at least in part on choices made

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among competing ends (e.g., D’Altroy and Earle 1985). While we may not always grasp the logic behind economic decisions, outcomes were subject to the same kinds of energetic and ecological constraints found elsewhere. Despite the vast resources that the imperial elites had at their disposal, they were hardly infinite. An example of competing ends may be seen in the shift from a general labor tax toward resettlement and retainership, which implies that the taxes were insufficient to meet a proliferating array of demands. The growth of the aristocratic estates may have played a major role here, especially in the allocation of labor to particular tasks and locations. Over the last few decades, joint documentary and archaeological analyses, informed by the competing theoretical emphases just outlined, have provided great insight into the Inka economy. Even so, major questions remain unresolved or only partially studied. A core issue concerns just how decisions were made in allocating productive resources and personnel among the burgeoning demands that arose over time. What was the (potentially shifting) weight among the different factors that determined economic policies and practices? How were military, civil, and religious interests balanced in their access to labor, raw resources, land, and herds? How were choices made when multiple entities—the state personified as the ruler, the religious institutions, or the aristocratic families—coveted the same resources? Was there simply a pecking order, so that the ruler had first call and then the social ranking of the entities involved came into play? Or was the emperor Huascar’s exasperated threat to appropriate all of the resources held by the temples and royal families just part of the last bloody negotiation over wealth and power? To put this point in a slightly different way, was there an evolving set of rules about how economics were to be run, or were raw power and political negotiation the essential tools for economic transformation throughout Inka history? A related question concerns the balance between political and economic spaces in the Inka political economy. By this, I mean to focus on the circuits of production, storage, and consumption in state activities. From the early documents, we know that the provinces were supposed to be largely self-sufficient. If that were true, regions of production and consumption ought to have coincided fairly well with administrative spaces (e.g., provinces administered by governors). But we also know that some goods were distributed in circuits that

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crossed over provincial borders, so that there appear to have been multiple spatial layers of economic practice. For example, certain kinds of high-quality objects— textiles, ceramics, and metal idols—were transferred long distances and used in specific state-related contexts, such as high-elevation shrines. In addition, highstatus non-Inka ceramics—such as Pacajes, Yavi Chico Polychrome, and Negro Pulido—circulated across provincial borders in state networks in Collasuyu (Williams et al., in prep.). In light of such evidence, we need to explore further how multiple kinds of administrative (e.g., regional political autonomy) and economic (e.g., transportation costs) concerns entered into the picture. Weight-to-value ratios may have been important, but other factors, such as the imperial phase (e.g., expansion, consolidation), regional challenges to Inka authority, context of use, and political infighting, also seem to have played a role. A third area of research raises a significant puzzle in Andean studies. If the colonization program was so extensive, affecting a quarter or more of the subject populace, why are colonies so hard to find archaeologically? To judge from the documentary sources, we would underestimate the resettlement programs by as much as a factor of one hundred on the basis of present archaeological evidence (D’Altroy 2005). Some mixed or out-of-place architectural or ceramic styles have been recorded, for example on the Bolivian frontier (Alconini 2010) and in the Lurín valley (Makowski and Vega Centeno 2004), but they are rare. One would think that if the mitmaqkuna program was the driving force in the late imperial economy, we could recognize its material signatures more readily. But such is not the case, which implies that we need to rethink how to use archaeological tools to study what may have been one of the most important Inka economic programs. Fourth, what were the biological effects on the Andean populace of the imposition of massive resettlement and the extractive economy that sustained the empire (Andrushko 2007)? This is an area of research that has only recently begun to take shape, but it promises some significant advances in understanding changes in diet by region and gender (Hastorf 1990), infant mortality (Owen and Norconk 1987), pathologies (Verano 2003), the stresses of labor (Norconk 1987), and the intersection of what had been distinct gene pools (Turner et al. 2009; Haun and Cock C. 2010; see chapter 4, by Shinoda). Fifth, how did the economies of subject societies

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react to the presence of the state and the demands of its economy? We know that there was some resistance to meeting state levies, but we may also ask how members of local communities tried to further their own ends. In the Upper Mantaro, research has found changes in metallurgy, food choices, textile production, ceramic production and use, and other household activities (Costin and Earle 1989). And elites in some subject societies created special bonds with the state to advance their own interests (e.g., Lorandi and Boixadós 1981–1988; Alconini 2010), in some cases employing state wares for political hospitality carried out in subject communities (e.g., D’Altroy 2002). But it is also the case that an enormous amount of economic activity within the empire was not imperial, as such. Since only a very few studies have been conducted on community economics under imperial rule (e.g., D’Altroy and Hastorf 2002), much more work on the subject is needed. To close, I would like to consider how the Inkas used economics as a tool in the cultural reconfiguration of the Andes—another issue that merits further investigation. In one sense, Inka economic policies were simply domination and extraction. In another, they were hegemonic arguments over land, biota, history, and the cultural practices that mediated between humanity and the nonhuman aspects of their world. For example, the transformation of the landscape through terracing and irrigation was a kind of cultural statement, as Earls and Cervantes, and Nair and Protzen, note elsewhere in this volume. It was certainly the case that both of those practices improved agricultural productivity by accelerating the growing season, improving humidity and soil retention, and expanding the area on which crops could be grown. Of comparable significance, however, was the domestication of a landscape that was considered to have a social life and past of its own, through the manipulation of water and reduction of the chaos that the Inkas claimed was inherent in the Andes prior to their appearance. A parallel effort was made to reconfigure the biotic space of the Andes by distributing a particular variety of the most highly desired crop—Cuzco flint maize—throughout their domain. Apparently in the service of religious observance, they also carried out some experimental agricultural activities, successfully growing maize at the sacred enclave at Copacabana, Bolivia, about 200 meters above its normal elevation limit of about 3,600 masl. And at the far southern edge of their domain, in central Chile, they cultivated crops (esp. quinoa) brought from the central Andes (Rossen

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et al. 2010). The effect of such agrarian and even forestry practices (see also Chepstow-Lusty and Winfield 2000), especially when applied in contexts of commensal hospitality, was to impose a particular view of civilized behavior on subject societies. Overall, then, Inka economic policies were intended to sustain the activities of the state, the aristocratic elites, and the official religious institutions, as well as to impose a particular view of an ordered, civilized life. To meet those goals, the Inkas implemented a labor tax, reorganized the ethnic composition of the empire, remodeled the landscape, and dedicated large numbers of people to institutional and personal service. All this was done under the guise of shared social responsibilities, a view that was resoundingly rejected by many Andean subjects at the first opportunity—and sometimes the second and third, to judge from the narratives of resistance and support for the invading Spaniards. Notes

1. Indeed, the modern discipline of economics as it is currently understood is generally considered to have taken form with the publication of Adam Smith’s An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, which appeared in 1776 (Smith 2000). The contrasting field of economic anthropology generally starts with a different set of assumptions than did Smith, and is far too complicated to be covered in other than a cursory way in this paper. 2. There were three principal kinds of “money” used in the northern part of the territory incorporated into the Inka empire. One consisted of strings of red and white beads called chaquira, which were described as having been made of bone and were used in highland Ecuador (Salomon 1987:66). A second, found in the same area, was called chagual; this money consisted of gold buttons. The last consisted of copper “axe-monies” called hachas-monedas, which were manufactured in a decimal sequence by weight and were used on the central and southern coast of Ecuador down to the far northern coast of Peru (Hosler et al. 1990). None of those special-purpose monies, which circulated in the north before and under Inka rule, was adopted into the Inka imperial economy itself. 3. The resources and personnel of ancient oracles, such as coastal Pachacamac and highland Wari Willka, were apparently respected and allowed to continue functioning after acknowledging the supremacy of the Inka sun god, Inti. Bibliography Albeck, María E., and M. Cristina Scattolín

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“On Inka Political Structure.” Proceedings of the Annual Spring Meeting of the American Ethnological Society, 30–41. Seattle: University of Washington. “Cloth and Its Functions in the Inka State.” American Anthropologist 64:710–728. “El ‘control vertical’ de un máximo de pisos ecológicos en la economía de las sociedades andinas.” In Visita de la provincia de León de Huánuco en 1562, Iñigo Ortiz de Zúñiga, visitador, ed. John V. Murra, 2:427–476. Huánuco: Universidad Nacional Hermilio Valdizán. Formaciones económicas y políticas del mundo andino. Lima: IEP. “Cloth and Its Function in the Inka State.” In Cloth and Human Experience, ed. Annette B. Weiner and Jane Schneider, 271–302. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution.

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PA R T I I I

Inka Culture at the Center

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CHAPTER 8

Inka Cosmology in Moray Astronomy, Agriculture, and Pilgrimage John C. Earls and Gabriela Cervantes

The Andes region possesses an unparalleled climatic and ecological variability condensed into its vertical and horizontal spaces. Inka agricultural technology and its symbolic expression can be understood as an adaptation to this extreme physiographic and climatic heterogeneity. The practices of risk dispersion and reduction through the management of a maximum of ecological tiers and the use of parallel calendars have long been recognized as an adaptive strategy responding to these environmental constraints. The organizational problem of applying the above strategies at wider levels of scale, however, has received relatively little attention, though they are expressed in many aspects of Inka astronomical activity and symbolic representation. This chapter looks at Inka irrigated terraces (andenes) as socio-technological systems for risk reduction. We propose that in this light they had dual, interlocking primary purposes: (a) to enhance agricultural productivity at local scales and (b) to facilitate effective agricultural coordination at large scales. The productive and coordinative functions of these systems become progressively more difficult to articulate at larger scales. We will illustrate our argument with technological and symbolic data from the Inka terraced agricultural site of Moray (fig. 8.1), some 35 kilometers northwest of the Inka capital, Cuzco, Peru. We propose that the site can be interpreted as a mechanism for the interfacing of these dual purposes at two or more levels of scale, and that the site might have worked as a transducer of microclimatic structure (agricultural terraces) and astronomical observations into macroclimatic conditions (high-mountain ecology) and a calendar. The chapter begins with a general consideration of Andean cosmology before moving on to the case study, Moray.

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Andean Cosmology The term “cosmology” refers to the framework of ordering principles understood to govern the entire universe, in both the natural and social domains.1 Cosmology details the consensual cognized form and geometry of the world, the broad categories of existing phenomena, the connectivity between them and the forces giving rise to events, and the relations of causality between them. Its cognitive processes involve the numerical manipulation of phenomena in cardinal and ordinal sequences, and their arrangement in space and time; cardinal and ordinal sequences consist of numbers that indicate just quantity (e.g., 5, 19, 273) and relative position (e.g., 1st, 2nd, 3rd), respectively. To legitimize itself, the prevailing political organization has to embody and symbolize the place of humanity in this universal order. But at a more fundamental level, its legitimacy is grounded in the institution’s ability to resolve the real problems affecting the population. The “problem-solving” legitimacy of a state polity would precede, and be a precondition for, the construction of a cosmological legitimacy (Tainter 1988). The problem-solving strategies of the nascent Inka state may be perceived as the instantiation or instrumentation of the emerging cosmological order. In this chapter we look at the process of agricultural problem solving at the level of the regional pre-imperial Inka state. The heterogeneous eco-climatic nature of the Andean environment set boundaries on this process in a number of ways. Further, the endeavor was interrupted by the Spanish invasion. Inka Cosmology Earls and Silverblatt (1978, 1981; see also Earls 1973) have analyzed the basic geometrical framework of

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Figure 8.1. Map of Peru showing location of Cuzco and Moray, with inset. (Drawing by Gabriela Cervantes)

Andean cosmology and its instantiation in social organization and agriculture. Features of this geometry are expressly represented in the course of Andean rituals and in the conceptualization of agricultural processes. One relevant facet of spatial and temporal orientation can be understood via the concept of Andean causality. In general terms, “causality” can be understood as a sequential relation between two events wherein the second event is understood to be a consequence of the first; a succession of such linked events is termed a “causal chain.” Much research in the Andes has shown that temporal sequences of events were conceptualized in cyclic terms, as was the passage of time itself (Earls 1969, 1973; Earls and Silverblatt 1978, 1981; Randall 1982; Zuidema 1964, 2011). Specific recurring sequences were often grouped according to their characteristic time periodicities—be these natural or social event cycles. Natural periodicities are specified by the astronomical and seasonal calendar cycles while the social ones are marked by age-grade sequences, pilgrimages, and even dynastic cycles. The end of a particular event sequence marks the time for initiating the first phase of a new sequence of similar kind. Andean causality is about the fitting together, or coming together (embodied in the Quechua term tinkuy), of associated cycles in such a way that something new arises. The most obvious archetype in agriculture

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is getting the right fit between the astronomical seasonal and labor cycles, a necessary cause for obtaining a new crop. In the Andean environment, the how and the when of this fitting is inevitably a group decision and is ritually sanctioned by that group. The sharing of a common calendar by the group is a minimal condition for the effective functioning of these causal chains. Calendar and Astronomy The development of a systematic astronomy and a coherent calendar by specialized functionaries is a necessary, but not a sufficient, condition for the effective coordination of dispersed groups of farmers working their lands in accord with local, regional, and global climatic configurations. A lunar month can be defined in two ways. A “synodic lunar month” is the time it takes for the moon to orbit the earth and return to conjunction with the sun (i.e., the time it takes for two successive new moons to occur). This is also known as the moon’s “synodic period.” A “sidereal lunar month” is measured in reference to the daily motions of the stars. While lunar months (synodic and/or sidereal) are more useful for counting subannual time intervals and planning seasonal agricultural activities, it is the sun’s annual path (as seen from the earth) that drives the seasons. The

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lunar and solar cycles are not fully compatible, because their cycles are not integer multiples of each other and thus cannot be exactly synchronized: the tropical year is about 365¼ days, rather than 365; and the synodic lunar month is just over 29½ days, with twelve of them adding up to some 354 days, resulting in a discrepancy of more than 11 days. As a result of the above de-synchronization, the different temporal cycles drift with respect to one another over longer periods, and adjustments, such as by the process known as intercalation,2 have to be made to restore their fit, for example, by inserting an extra day every four years to form leap years, variable month lengths, extra intercalary months, etc. The necessary intercalations can be arbitrary, or they can be specified by formal algorithms derived by formal calculations. This involves establishing the correlations of events in the different cycles and making testable predictions of the intercalations. The observation and registration of all this require an adequate mapping of the celestial events onto the terrestrial topography. Mechanisms could be built in to correlate the sidereal and synodic lunar months with the tropical year. Systematic formal calendars based on emergent astronomical science seem to become a feature of managerial control in large-scale agricultural systems. This is related, either directly or indirectly, to a process of political centralization. The intricacy of the required observations, calculations, and record-keeping calls for a full-time specialization. Its workings tend to become unintelligible to the farmers using it (Lansing 1987:331–332; Varisco 1993). The seasonal year—that is, the time between two recurrent seasonal events—correlates generally well with the calendar year over a long period. But the “fit” between them varies considerably from one year to another. The uncertainty of this fit increases with altitude. By analogy with the astronomical cycles, it could be said that every year farmers have to “intercalate” calendar time with seasonal time to program their agricultural labors. For example, late rainfalls are compensated for by delaying planting, irrigation, harvesting, and the like for a number of days, and conversely, early rainfalls are dealt with by advancing these processes. It will be seen below that the incorporation of agricultural terrace structures makes these adjustments easier, allowing a more predictable “intercalation” of the astronomical and the seasonal calendars.

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The Case Study: Moray With the above background in mind, we now turn our attention to the impressive site of Moray and the singular geometric formation of its agricultural terracing. The function of this structure has been interpreted in many different ways by scholars (see below), and no consensus has been reached. In light of the factors discussed above, we will argue that the structure is best understood as a transducer of microclimatic structure into macroclimatic conditions at the Inka heartland. Location and Description Moray is located on the high Maras plateau (3,500 masl), south of the Urubamba River, 7 kilometers from the town of Maras and about 35 kilometers northwest of the Inka capital, Cuzco (see fig. 8.1). The site consists of four bowl-shaped concavities (called muyu in Quechua) that were constructed from natural sinkholes (dolines) in the karstic limestone plain (fig. 8.2). Archaeologists from the Ministry of Culture in Cuzco have excavated to a depth of more than four meters in the artificial plain extending from the middle level of the largest muyu; they found that the soil was imported as fill by the Inkas to make the surface horizontal (Alicia Quirita, pers. comm. 2010; see also Wright et al. 2011). Each muyu is ringed by a number of concentric, irrigated terraces (figs. 8.2, 8.3). These are interconnected with other built features, altogether forming a highly regular artificial structure of some 37

Figure 8.2. Inka terrace system of Moray, showing muyus. (Google Earth, 2011)

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Figure 8.3. Plan of Inka terrace system of Moray, showing muyus and sector E. (Adapted by Gabriela Cervantes from an original by INC-Cusco)

Figure 8.4. Muyu A, Moray, with sector E terraces visible upper left. (Photo Gabriela Cervantes)

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Figure 8.5. Drop structures, or paqcha, muyu A, Moray. (Photo Gabriela Cervantes)

hectares in area. The extensive modifications that were made in the original landscape to produce this geometric pattern would necessarily have involved hauling hundreds of tons of earth and rock. The largest muyu, marked A in figure 8.3, is from forty to sixty meters deep, but only its lowest twentyfour meters are terraced. The other three muyus—B, C, and D—are completely circumscribed by nearly concentric oval terraces from their bases to the surface plain and are connected by other artificial structures. The smallest muyu, D, has only two completed levels (Earls 1989:286; Wright et al. 2011). Between muyus A and D is a particular sequence of eight arched “linear” terraces facing northeast, marked E in figure 8.3 and visible in figure 8.4. Sector E is about 90 meters wide and 110 meters long; the length of each wall varies with the curvature of the arcs. The terraces were irrigated by well-carved canals, and the crops that were grown here have been identified via palynological analysis (Wright et al. 2011; Pumaccahua 2001, as mentioned in Wright et al. 2011). Water enters the muyus from the south sides via canals and is conducted down to each terrace level by vertically aligned “drop structures,” or narrow waterfalls, carved carefully in the stone (Quechua word paqcha) (fig. 8.5). The water drop line is centered between a pair of the lines of wall steps (Quechua word sayruna) that radiate out from the center of each muyu. A hydrological study of the irrigation system by Ken Wright and his colleagues (2011) concludes that the terraced area alone occupies five and a half hectares (out of the total of thirty-seven). Only the terraced area could have been watered; stretching the estimated available water to the limit would attain a maximum yield of 8.7 tons of

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maize. This means that even in a very good year only some forty-five people could be supported by the site’s production. The intensive investment of human labor in the construction of this system makes it quite unlikely that its primary purpose was agricultural production to feed a few dozen people. There are indications that the site was abandoned before the Inka had completed its construction. For example, near muyu D a number of half-carved rocks are not appropriately put into place, and tools and partially worked stones were left scattered about (Earls 1989:286; 2006a:141). Wright and his colleagues point out that the canal system was not completed (Wright et al. 2011:50–51). We believe that the site remained under construction until the very late Inka period; the work was likely done mostly by mitimaes (workers relocated from other areas), who—once aware of the death of the Inka ruler, Atahualpa, in Cajamarca and the subsequent Spanish advance to Cuzco—would have abandoned their work and returned to their original communities. Other colleagues think this is a plausible interpretation (Ian Farrington and Heffernan, pers. comm. 1993). Some researchers have held (referring to the lower four or lower six levels) that the site’s construction began in late pre-Inka or early Inka times and that it continued to be expanded and elaborated during the Inka expansion in the fifteenth century that is usually associated with Inka Pachacuti. More archaeological work is needed to clarify the construction sequence (for details, see Earls 1989, 2006a; Wright et al. 2011). There are no known direct references to the site of Moray (at least with this name) in colonial documents, but one source mentions a sacred shrine of an Inka ancestral group, the Ayarmaca, in the Maras area and the names of nearby still-existing places (Maras, Santa Ana, Pichingoto) on the path to Ollantaytambo (Rostworowski 1969). The Ayarmaca ayllus (communities of diverse size, each composed of descendants from the same ancestors who collectively possessed their own lands, pastures, and water supply) and lands were dispersed throughout the Inka heartland, with major concentrations in the Chincheros, Puquiura, and San Sebastian areas. Zuidema (2011:715–716) states that Maras was the capital of the pre-Inka Ayarmaca kingdom. They had the ascribed status of “Inkas of Privilege” (as opposed to Inkas by birth) and as such were linked to tasks of agricultural renovation (Farrington 1992). Also, Rostworowski (1969) has documented the group’s associations with agriculture and specific wild plants and their diverse uses.

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Present-Day Traditions In light of the above documentary information, it is reasonable to suppose that something of the Ayarmaca/ Inka relationship would be preserved in present-day local traditions that could illuminate certain cosmological and political aspects of Inkaic Moray. Among modern peasant communities, the site of Maras is itself said to be a powerful mountain lord, named Apu Moray (Lord Moray), from which the Inka ancestors of the surrounding communities emerged (Earls and Silverblatt 1981; Earls 1989:32–33; Urton 2006). Apu (lord) is the Cuzco Quechua term used to designate the ancestral spirit of each of the social groups; such spirits are embodied in natural features and most typically in mountains. The apu form a hierarchy: the power of each corresponds to the size of its respective group and is physically expressed in the size of the embodied mountain. The term was also used as a title for high-ranking Inka government officials. The golden palace of Inka Huayna Capac is said to be beneath the largest muyu, here called muyu A. Huayna Capac was the last Inka king to complete his reign before the Spanish invasion, and in the present this name also designates the sun itself (Urton 2006:54, 71). According to Earls’s informants, every year the most powerful apu of Cuzco come together in this palace and receive their instructions from Huayna Capac regarding their respective labors for the coming year (the labors mentioned by my informants were mostly agricultural, i.e., who will plant where, what sort of crops will be planted). Important local mountain lords associated with Moray are the Apu Wañuymarca and the Apu Saqra; the former is the ancestor of several neighboring communities and is astronomically relevant during the solstice events to be described below. Apu Saqra is said to be the original site of the Apu Moray and also the wife of Apu Wañuymarca. These two apu are the parents of other important local apu (see Urton 2006). All these apu receive ritual offerings throughout the year (called dispachos in Quechua); the number of participants is roughly proportional to the hierarchical rank of the apu (Earls 1969, 1970; Núñez del Prado 2006). It is significant that the local people are very reluctant to speak of the specific rites for Apu Moray, or to tell by whom they are made, while they are willing to talk about rituals dedicated to other apu of the region. Every August a festival is held at the church of Tio-

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bamba, close to Maras, to honor the Virgin of Asunción (called “Mamacha Asunta” by local peasants; “Asunción” and “Ascensión” refer to the ascents to heaven of the Virgin Mary and of Jesus Christ, respectively). People come from the surrounding region and from rather distant places, such as Chumbivillcas and Espinar, two provinces south of Cuzco. During this event, products such as maize, ceramics, and salt are traded in kind and not with money. The bartering involved is said to fix the relative values of the different goods for the coming year (i.e., how much of product X is to be given in exchange for item Y). This festival is known to date from at least 1786 (Cahill 1996). It will be seen below that these practices are quite consonant with what we can infer about Inka administration of the area. Astronomy in Moray The major events of the solar calendar observed in the Cuzco area are the winter solstice ( June 21), the anti-zenith transit (August 18), the spring equinox (September 21), the solar zenith transit (October 30), the summer solstice (December 22), the solar zenith transit (February 13), the fall equinox (March 21), and the anti-zenith transit (April 26). These events are well marked in important Inka places, such as the Coricancha temple, Ollantaytambo, and Pisac, among others. Given the intricate Inka interweaving of cosmological and administrative ordering principles, and their expression in astronomical and calendrical structures, it is to be expected that this arrangement would be instantiated in Moray. In this section we describe important astronomical events observed in Moray; in the following section, we detail the microclimatic structure and seasonal periodicities linked with these observations. The geometry of the system is such that key dates in the Inka calendar are marked by specific visual patterns of sun and shade generated over all the terraces here. The June solstice (or winter solstice, for the Southern Hemisphere) is associated with two mountains that mark the horizon points: (1) Wañuymarca, a low hill about a kilometer to the southwest of Moray, and (2) Pumahuanca, a distinctive peak at a distance of 16.4 kilometers from Moray that is adjoined to the Chicón glacier in the Villcanota range, at ~24° north of east and situated above the town of Urubamba. Wañuymarca translates as “resting place for the dead”; Pumahuanca translates as “foundation stone of the puma,” and its upper por-

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Figure 8.6. Sunrise Puma profile. (Drawing by Gabriela Cervantes, from an original by John Earls)

tion is described by local people as having a feline shape. Both mountains are considered apu and are said to have fought a battle in ancient times in which Pumahuanca decapitated Wañuymarca. The solstice itself is marked by a number of distinct but interlocking visual events, observed in different parts of the Moray system, that are generated by the sun’s horizontal projection over the terraces. They also enable the intercalation of the solar year with the lunar and sidereal cycles. We describe three of these events below (for more detailed description see Earls and Silverblatt 1981; Earls 1989). Sunrise Puma Profile Event The rays of sunlight rising behind Pumahuanca mountain displace the shade as they descend the slope from the top of the Wañuymarca mountain and eventually illuminate the Moray structures. In our perception the descending sunlight creates a puma-shaped silhouette similar in shape to the Pumahuanca peak but vertically inverted in space and with a reversed light/shade profile (as in a photographic negative) (fig. 8.6). As seen from a specific carved igneous rock called Machuhera (translated as “threshing floor of the ancients”), located some 376 meters to the northwest of the center of muyu A, the sun rises from the puma mountain’s nape, briefly casting a long, thin shadow that points to Wañuymarca. As viewed from this same direction, the shape of Machuhera is similar to the shape of the Pumahuanca (fig. 8.6). The Arched Linear Terraces (Sector E) Sunrise Event At sunrise on the day of the June (Southern Hemispheric winter) solstice, striking visual events are generated over the sector E terraces. Each of the eight walls

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is successively silhouetted by the contour of the shade that is cast from the horizon by the rising sun (figs. 8.3, 8.7). The highest terrace arc becomes outlined simultaneously with the sunrise over Pumahuanca (as seen from Machuhera). This requires the precise visual concurrence of each of the eight arc walls with the position of the sun and the horizon. The outlines of the walls vary sequentially: the curvature is greatest at the highest level, becoming a straight line where it meets the plain. The precision of the terrace silhouetting lasts for a period of only some five days when to the naked eye the sun appears to “stand still.” Two days after the solstice, the shadows and walls begin to lose alignment (Earls 1989). The “Noon Sunset” Event of Muyu A The terrace levels referred to here for muyu A are labeled by numbers from the base up and by their relation to the cardinal points: i.e., 9.N is the ninth level north; 5.W, the fifth to the west, etc., and the base center is termed 1.O (fig. 8.8). On the eighth and ninth terraces, slightly to the west of north of muyu A (9.N) (fig. 8.8), there are two irregular calcitic rocks called pacha (Quechua for “earth”); each is called ñusta (“princess” in Quechua) by the local population. Alfonsina Barrionuevo (pers. comm., 1984) has found that one of the two (9.N) is known more specifically as the ñusta of Chumbivilcas (the princess of Chumbivilcas) and is said to be the daughter of the Pachamama (“Earth Mother” in Quechua) by the local population. Up until the 1980s this ñusta was about 1.2 meters high and there was a cuplike hollow in its flattened top; the rock is now only half as high, and the hollow shape has been lost (Earls and Silverblatt 1981:456). According to the Ministry of Culture in Cuzco, these are not Inka-made rock protrusions but

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Figure 8.7. Light and shade effect during solstice sunrise in sector E at Moray. (Prepared by Gabriela Cervantes from an original video by John Earls)

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Figure 8.8. Drawing of muyu A, showing the phases of the “noon sunset” event during winter solstice. (Drawing by Gabriela Cervantes, from an original by John Earls)

were rocks that fell there during early Colonial times, and thus the 8.N pacha was removed from its original placement during the reconstruction work at the site. It is fortunate that the 9.N ñusta was not disturbed but rather left in its original location. During his fieldwork at the site Earls learned from the modern inhabitants that they use the name kontay for this type of rock (termed “Maras Formation” by Wright et al. [2011:120]); kontay has great symbolic importance, resulting in part from its anti-erosive properties as compared to superficial soils, or mismiy (“filter” in Quechua, and whence the name of the modern neighboring community of Misminay).

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In his work at the site in the 1970s, Earls noted what he described as an apparent “noon sunset” effect in the winter solstice period, which could be observed from the 9.N ñusta and from the neighboring northern terraces of muyu A (fig. 8.8) (Earls 1989:129–144, 2006a; Earls and Silverblatt 1981). During the months both before and after the solstice, a shadow is cast by a horizontal protrusion at the northern edge of the muyu. As the sun passes behind the protuberance around midday, the rays of sunlight are blocked from these terraces. After some minutes (the exact time depends on the number of days until the solstice itself), the sun comes

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Figure 8.9. Photo/drawing composite of muyus, showing shade details during the “noon sunset” event. (Prepared by Gabriela Cervantes with photographs by John Earls)

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out from behind the rim to shine on the mound again, finally setting soon afterward over the main rim horizon. As viewed from these terraces, the sun appears to rise and set twice (fig. 8.8). Viewed from a greater distance, the rim protrusion casts a shadow that takes an inverted “puma” shape, a silhouette also noted for the sunrise over Wañuymarca (as discussed above) (fig. 8.9). Two components of the shadow figure are clearly distinguished: one corresponds to the animal’s narrow neck/head, and the other to its back. The tip of the former shape reaches down to the fifth terrace level (5.N) of muyu A at the solstice, while the latter shifts to a more horizontal form at the ninth level, shading a much wider stretch of terraces: from that level up to 12.N (fig. 8.9). This disjunction in the projection of the shadow figure is reflected in the amount of time the corresponding terraces are touched by sunlight. The uppermost four terraces (9.N–12.N) are shaded for a longer time, the middle four (5.N–8.N) are in shade for a shorter time, and the lowest four terraces (1.W–4.N) remain unshaded. Earls noted that on the day of the winter solstice, the sun rose for the first time over the cup mark of the 9.N ñusta at 10:13 a.m. and set over it at 12:04 p.m., rising for the second time at 1:27 p.m. and setting again behind the main horizon at 2:14 p.m.; the “noon sunset” event thus lasted one hour and twenty-three minutes (figs. 8.8, 8.9). When near to its apparent rise and set positions, the sun’s path nearly coincides with the rim horizon’s curvature (see fig. 8.8, lower half), so that the lower limb of sun appears to “skate” along the horizon for some minutes. At the second sunset this effect lasts for nearly ten minutes; my impression is that it was consciously designed. At 9.N the shadow line stays still at the highest point of the ñusta during this interval. The exact first and last dates of this phenomenon were not empirically determined. Earls first observed its occurrence some twenty-one to twenty days before the solstice, and was able to record the times completely for five days. By July 23 the event had ceased, with the shadow only reaching halfway up the mound at 12:43  p.m. Interpolation of the data gives the best estimate for its onset and disappearance over a span of twenty-seven days on either side of the winter solstice (i.e., from May 25 to July 18). If this was indeed a conscious design, its purpose is open to speculation. One possibility is that at night similar observations were made of the path of the moon over the course of these 54 (= 2 x 27) days, for solar and

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lunar intercalations; a full moon at the solstice would also seem to skate across the horizon but at places slightly different from those of the sun. The degree of coincidence of the two trajectories would mark the stages of the Metonic cycle. The seeming impermanence of the two ñustas noted by the Ministry of Culture personnel is most likely the result of the lack of certainty the Inkas felt about the precise final position and shape of the mounds, rather than any accidental colonial event; in other words, this is another indication that construction of the site was unfinished. Other Astronomical Events at Moray The dates of the equinox (March 21 and September 22) are also well demarcated in muyu A. It is on these dates alone that the shadow cast by the rising sun from the eastern rim of the muyu forms a straight line; the light/ shade interface passes simultaneously over the center point (1.O) and the ñusta. As the sun sets over the western rim the 1.O–ñusta alignment is again replicated exactly, but with the light/shade movement inverted (see Earls 1989:139; Earls and Silverblatt 1981: fig. 8). It will be seen below that the dates of the solar zenith transits are also highlighted by the structure. High Mountain Macroclimate and Terrace Agriculture Technology The Andean environment is the most diverse, per unit area, of any known in the world. According to the widely used “life zone” classification of the world’s eco-climatic system by Leslie Holdridge (1947) and Joseph Tosi (1976), 84 life zones, out of a total of 104 zones for the entire world, are found in Peru alone. The life zones are most densely concentrated in the mountainous regions and generally coincide with the locally defined (i.e., Peruvian highlands) ecological tiers and/or production zones (Mayer 1985); each has its own particular food-producing cycle. As shown below, these zones are subject to pronounced environmental fluctuations and thus to unsynchronized and fluctuating resource yields and a high risk of failure. As an adaptation to these circumstances, the Inka state amplified and extended the ancient Andean interzonal ecological complementarity described by Murra (1972, 1975) (and see Isbell 1978; Earls 2006b). Technological solutions were sought

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through the creation of sophisticated agricultural terrace systems. Moray can be understood as one such solution. Note that unanticipated environmental uncertainty and instability can give rise to social disorder, which in turn may delegitimize the political order.

quantity of precipitation, temperatures, winds, etc.). It consists of mechanisms able to act on the accessible factors so that the essential subsistence variables (basically resource yields) are kept within the limits for survival. For example, agricultural terraces reduce the impact of dry spells by optimizing the use of the available water for crops. Other examples are given below.

Macroclimate (Regional Context) For the Andes of southern Peru, Winterhalder (1994) has demonstrated that macroclimatic variability (as registered at 150 centimeters above ground surface) increases with altitude. He shows that the predictability of the requisite climatic conditions for the opening of the agricultural season (as specified by adequate rainfall and minimal frost probability) decreases with altitude. A variation of a month or more for the onset of these seasonal agro-climatic conditions from one year to another is common in the high Andes. On mountain slopes the average temperature decreases with increased altitude by about 6.5°C per one thousand meters in dry air (termed the “environmental phase lapse”).3 The metabolic activity of plants is a function of temperature such that, within the range of their ecological tolerance limits, the growth rate of crops halves for each 10°C decrease. It can be calculated that for plants sown simultaneously on a slope, around one extra growing day is required at each successive ten meters of altitude. This makes for a month’s delay in the maturation cycles of plants that have been sown three hundred meters higher in altitude.4 Given that the water requirement of a crop varies with the metabolic stage of its growth cycle, estimates of allocation of water must also consider altitude. For example, a critical time for maize is at flowering (anthesis): lack of water at this point can mean the loss of more than half of the harvest (Earls 1989, 2006a:129–136). As a consequence, risk-management strategies and technologies became very sophisticated throughout the Andes region.5 If we understand “control system” as the “means by which a set of variable quantities is held constant or caused to vary in a prescribed way” (Britannica Concise Encyclopedia 2011), then these strategies and technologies, and indeed the social organization itself, should be seen as a control system. An effective control system must necessarily contain mechanisms to facilitate adapting to eco-climatic uncertainty. The control cannot make any changes in the variables defining the macroclimatic configuration itself (i.e., the timing and

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Microclimate and Terrace Agriculture (Site Context) Microclimatic variability also increases with altitude. Rudolf Geiger (1950) pointed out years ago that in the higher mountain regions—with their lower atmospheric and water vapor density and with higher solar radiation and thermal counterradiation than at sea level—ground temperatures are a much more important influence on plant growth than is the air temperature at 150 centimeters above the soil. Quite different microclimates can coexist side by side because relatively small differences in soil composition, color, and texture; sun/shade variability; and so forth diminish the homogenizing effects of thermal advection (horizontal heat movement) and conduction. In other words, small differences in ground temperature give rise to pronounced differences in the metabolic processes of plants and in the duration of their vegetative cycles: “In high mountains with their low temperatures, the plant world can thrive only close to the ground, and the amount by which the ground temperature exceeds the air temperature increases with altitude” (Geiger 1950:35). Terraced fields generate artificial microclimates.6 Given their staircase-like geometry (see fig. 8.4) and a reasonably constant construction pattern and soils, terraces function as mechanisms that “smooth out” the mosaic of natural microclimates, replacing them with a simpler relation of proportionality between the altitude, the crop’s vegetative cycle, and the water requirements. In this way they permit a higher degree of managerial/user coordination than would be possible in the nonterraced natural environment. For example, in the Quechua community of Andamarca (Ayacucho, Peru), at some 3,200 meters above sea level, a slope is ordered in blocks of eight to twelve contiguous terraces (misno in Quechua); each one is assigned a date for irrigation in the time sequence defined by altitude so that successive misno are watered on successive days ( Juan Ossio 2010, pers. comm.; similar practices are described by Treacy [1994] and Trawick [2002]).

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Andean terraces can thus be usefully regarded as artifacts of microclimatic engineering that generate simple relations between agricultural activities and what is called the “environmental lapse rate” (again, the rate of decrease of atmospheric temperature with increasing altitude). In light of the high-altitude climatic variability mentioned, and of the impossibility of manipulating the macroclimatic variables, it seemed to us most likely that any climatic control in the Moray system would be expressed microclimatically in its terrace structure. According to local oral tradition, Moray was an “Inka agricultural college,” with different climates represented in its different levels and sectors. Cuzco archaeologist Manuel Chávez Ballón (1976, pers. comm.) considered Inka interest in agricultural research to be the most plausible explanation for the layout of this site; he went so far as to construct a clay model of the terraces but unfortunately did not publish his studies. The task then for us was to accomplish the following: (1) Identify a relation between the terraces’ geometric structure and the distribution of the microclimates over them; (2) Demonstrate that the relation is purposeful, i.e., neither random nor explainable in terms of “natural” factors like environmental phase lapse; and (3) Determine empirically that key dates of the Inka calendar system are marked in the terrace structure.

Together these factors would constitute evidence of an intentionally designed control system for Moray in the present case study and possibly for other Inka structures as well, although, it must be said, not necessarily of how it actually worked in practice. Our assumption was that Inkas would have been concerned with growing times for crops in a range of environmental conditions; for this reason, then, the calendar would be built in to the system. Soil Temperature and Agricultural Technology at Moray To investigate a possible relation between the terrace structures and climate, Earls recorded daily soil temperatures at a depth of ten centimeters and other microclimatic data7 near the surfaces of the terraces in muyu A. He placed glass mercury thermometers along the radii to the west and to the north of the center of the

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circular base level (designated 1.O) for thirteen periods at roughly monthly intervals. Earls noted the temperatures for all thermometers about six times each day. The results show a clear relation between the terraces’ soil temperatures and their differential exposure to sun and shade (fig. 8.10). Since the relative insulation varies with slope orientation and solar declination over the year, the temperatures are necessarily correlated with the solar calendar. The microclimates are also conditioned by the disposition of humidity in the soils from the pattern of water drainage in the system. The lowest four levels accumulate water and drain it more slowly. The soil temperatures measured tend to be clustered in subgroups (fig. 8.10) of four terraces that we call “sectors” located in different elevations and orientations. This microclimatic segmentation is greatest in the drier months—from the winter solstice through the sowing season—and becomes minimal during the rainy season (December to March). The lower four levels on both axes (sector I [S I in fig. 8.10], levels 1.O to 4.N and 1.O to 4.W [only results for 1.O–4.N shown in fig. 8.10]), are nearly always colder than the higher ones throughout the year, due to the evaporation of the accumulated humidity; crops can be sown here without irrigation in years of normal precipitation. The middle four (S II W, levels 5 to 8 to west of 1.O) are drier and hotter (Earls 1989, 2006a). Differences in the maximum soil temperatures reach up to 10°C between the fourth and the fifth west levels during the sowing season (August to October/ November), with daily average differences of 4°C (fig. 8.10). If both were sown with maize on the same date in late September and the growing-degree days8 for each were counted, we calculate that on the fifth terrace, the maturation would be more than a month before that of the fourth. As mentioned above, this is equivalent to an altitude difference of three hundred meters on a homogeneous slope. For most of the year the four middle level terraces to the north (S II N) are much the same as S II W. The upper north sector (S III N, 9.N–12.N) is extremely cold in the months before and after the June (winter) solstice—with the highest terrace (12.N) remaining near 0°C for over a month and then increasing rapidly from a daily mean of 4°C in August to 22°C in November. In the winter solstice period the soil temperature gradient on the north terraces is extreme: the 12.N, at 24 meters above the base level, is nearly 10°C colder than at 1.O. In the same period the twelfth-level terrace on the western axis (12.W) is some 10°C warmer

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than it is on the north (12.N) side of the same level. In all, the temperatures of the terraces deviate significantly from the environmental lapse rate of -6.5°C/1,000 meters. In figure 8.10 the interpolated average monthly soil temperatures for each level on the northern axis are depicted as a surface graph; the day numbers of the year (1 = January 1; 172 = June 21, etc.) are plotted on the x axis, the terrace levels and sectors (I, II, III) on the y axis, and the temperatures by the gray patterns (Earls 2006a:150). The temperature gradient contours for S III N in this period are consistent with the width of the shadow outline of the puma’s back: the higher the terrace, the more prolonged the noon sunset shading and the greater the daily insulation reduction. At the solstice itself, 12.N receives no direct sunlight at all. It is generally assumed that maize growth requires average daily temperatures of 10°C or higher. From the north axis soil temperature (Ts) gradient in 1976 (fig. 8.10) it is seen that for S III N at 9.N, Ts reaches 10°C by August 10; it then successively reaches that value at levels 10.N, 11.N, and 12.N in groupings of ten days. The first sowing at 12.N (with Ts = 10°C) would be a month later than the first sowing at 9.N. In this sector the timing of the commencement of the agricultural calendar replicates the insulation gradient caused by the wider “back” of the inverted puma shadow along 9.N at

the solstice. The differential cooling during the solstice, when sowing is impossible, generates a sequential delay in the possible dates for planting in the August sowing season. A thermal delay of ten days per terrace correlates to an altitude difference of about one hundred meters for a standard slope lapse rate (and is reasonably close to the number of days of delay for five or six Andamarca terraces/misnos, as discussed above). The equivalent gradient for S II N gives a sowing lag of a month and a half from 5.N to 8.N. This argument can be extended to the entire Moray system9 (see fig. 8.9). In a warmer year the dates reaching the 10°C mark would be advanced, while in a colder one they would be delayed. The microclimatic structure described was established over a year of fairly typical macroclimatic conditions. Wright et al. (2011) estimate the average annual rainfall at about 500 millimeters. However, in periods of very heavy rains the water could accumulate faster than it could be drained, forming a pond at the base (Rowe [1944] reports a puddle in muyu B that was 0.5 meter deep). In this situation the moisture content in the soil of lower terraces would correspondingly increase. Since the cooler conditions of the lowest four levels, S I, are caused by accumulated moisture from excess rains in the sowing season (as in 2002), capillary action would force the moisture up to level 5 or higher, thereby cooling them. In one exceptionally dry spell, the lowest lev-

Figure 8.10. Mean soil temperatures in muyu A at Moray. (Prepared by John Earls)

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els dried out so much that their soil temperatures rose to almost those of the higher sectors. Thus, in extreme macroclimatic conditions the microclimatic sector structure will be distorted or even rubbed out. Such occasions would probably have served as signals that an alternative agricultural program must be applied over the Cuzco valley region. Because Moray was viewed as a control system, such a distortion of its microclimatic structure would be a signal that the essential subsistence variables were at their limits of tolerance, and that important decisions would have to be taken. The occurrence of these events in Moray, and of course their magnitude, would certainly be correlated with the corresponding events at wider scales. An extremely high number of wild plant species were growing on the northern terraces of muyu A in the 1970s, prior to the restoration of the site. Many of them are quite scarce outside the site. The patterns in their spatial clustering and flowering order indicated their use as sensitive ecological indicators of the diversity of growing conditions created by the macro- and microclimatic regimes in the area (Earls 1989:81–85). An Alternate Interpretation of Moray: An Evaluation The recent study by Ken Wright and his colleagues (2011) is an important contribution to the understanding of the Moray site. The study revises Earls’s earlier interpretation of the site but concludes that the muyu A terraces, with the exception of the humid S I levels, could not have been used for agricultural experimentation because there would have been insufficient available water during the sowing season, even with the irrigation system. They conclude that the primary purpose of Moray was as a setting for religious and ceremonial activities, and that the water was intended for ritual use. A detailed analysis of the Wright et al. arguments is beyond the purview of this paper; we will review and answer only what we consider their most fundamental points concerning water use and irrigation:10

tures (paqcha) and from these along each terrace surface. However, there are no corresponding paqcha on the north side to drain down the excess irrigation water from each level; thus, the terraces could not have been irrigated. 3. Irrigation of the terraces would have destabilized the slope.

Each of these arguments seems to assume that maize cultivation requires nearly continuous irrigation, and that in places like Moray, where the water reserves are scarce, there are insurmountable limits on the possible agricultural yield. We do agree with their conclusion that the site was not intended for agricultural production, but the experimentation and control we suggest do not require continuous irrigation. Although we lack data regarding the Inka use of the site, we are able to make relevant inferences from other information. Abundant ethnographic and ethnohistorical evidence shows that Andean agriculture in general is characterized by the optimization of the use of available water (Mitchell and Guillet 1994; Treacy 1994; Sherbondy 1994; Trawick 2002). As mentioned above, the objective is to schedule the irrigation cycle so that each terraced field receives just the required amount of water at the appropriate time. Trawick has described the procedures used by one community in the following terms: All parcels of land served by a given spring, and all households, receive water with the same frequency, though one that varies with seasonal and long-term fluctuations in the supply. First, the land sectors that make up the village territory, which are defined according to patterns of micro-environmental variation, are allotted water consecutively in a fixed sequence based on planting order and crop maturation times. During each cycle of the system, watering passes through all the sectors currently in production, reaching every parcel before beginning again.

Secondly, the plots within each sector are likewise given

water in a rigid contiguous order, starting at the bottom of the sector and moving systematically upward, in such a way that the time at which they are serviced depends only on their location, rather than on who owns them or the specific crops in which they are planted. (Trawick 2002:40–41)

1. The irrigation of the terraces during the planting and growing seasons would homogenize the soil temperatures, as the rains of the rainy season do, and thus the microclimatic sector structure. 2. The irrigation water enters the muyu from the south, falling to successive terrace levels via the line of drop struc-

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In the present context it must be noted that in times of drought—when the period between waterings exceeds ninety days—the water distributor takes actions to ensure that the span does not go beyond one hundred days (by taking some of the higher parcels out

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Table 8.1. Comparison of the Soil Temperatures in Two Terraces, 3.W in Sector I and 5.W in Sector II Soil Temperatures (°C) at 3.W

Soil Temperatures (°C) at 5.W

Sept. 23

15.0

18.4

Sept. 25

17.7

22.8

Sept. 26

17.7

24.5

Date

of the distribution sequence [Trawick 2002: n. 5, 41]). For most Andean varieties of maize, the time between the two most water-critical metabolic events, sowing and silking, is in fact about ninety to one hundred days (Earls 2006a:129–136; Grobman et al. 1961). The limits of tolerance for water stress are fixed by the timing of these events. By implication then, even in such extreme circumstances the plant can give a suboptimal yield with very little water—perhaps with some sporadic rainfall during the intervening period—although much better yields would obviously be obtained with irrigation at more frequent intervals. In this light we can respond to the second point of Wright et al. In Earls’s interpretation of Moray, the Inka ideal would be for no excess irrigation water to be drained off at the north axis. In rainy conditions the excess water would be channeled directly down through the entry channel paqchas at the south, or more likely diverted before entering the muyu, meaning no exit paqchas were needed in the north. With these considerations in mind, we can look at the first point. The terraces would not be water-­ saturated during the planting season. After each irrigation the soil would dry out again and the microclimatic differentiation would thus be reestablished. The situation can be exemplified from Earls’s fieldwork measurements. On September 21 and 22, 1976, there were very heavy rains at Moray, which the local people referred to as “out of season” rains (interestingly, making the point that the “climate is changing”). The rains eased off on September 23, with flashes of sunlight in the afternoon, but the soil remained very wet. On subsequent days the weather dried and the sun shone brightly. The soil temperatures registered between 2:00  p.m. and 3:00  p.m. over three days for two terraces, 3.W in sector I and 5.W in sector II, are compared in table 8.1 (Earls 1989:204– 207, 260–268). The saturated earth dried out in two days, and the

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Ts quickly returned to the sowing season sector pattern. The average Ts values for these two sites (3.W, 5.W) for all the days between September 23 and 28 were 14.3° and 18.7°C, which is very close to the maximum temperatures recorded for very humid soils on September 23. The same thermal pattern was registered for the equivalent levels on the northern axis (3.N, 5.N). This event replicates the thermal response during and following a heavy irrigation. Given that the growing degree day accumulation during the first thirty days after planting is a major determinant of maturation time (Sánchez 1972), a limited use of irrigation is quite consistent with the experimental agricultural hypothesis. Earls agrees with the third point made by Wright et al., in that it further weakens the case for agricultural production at the site. Inka Transduction and Coordination at Moray Transduction: Articulating Microclimatic Engineering and Astronomical Cycles “Transduction” refers to the conversion of a signal from one form to another; it is a biological term that was adapted to anthropology by Roy Rappaport (1971) to describe information transformation in ritual processes. In a functional sense, ritual works as a transducer of analogue information into binary/digital information, or vice versa. For example, in many Andean community rituals, people put a rosary-like collar stringed with harvested fruits and other crops (wayllqa in Quechua) around their necks. The quality of a person’s wayllqa is an analogue representation of their current economic situation relative to the other participants. On the base of this information a binary decision (yes/no) can be taken as to whether the person has the necessary resources to assume a particular role in the community. An operative control system comprises institutionalized structures for the transfer of relevant information through all levels of scale—from localized, autonomous groups of farmers up to the experts and down again—and often involves ritual transduction. The system incorporates mechanisms (transducers) that convert the information from what the farmers see and deal with at a local level into large-scale calendrical periodicities. This information was registered by the Inkas in khipus (see chapter 9, by Urton) that were

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managed by the higher-level administrators who made the big decisions, and vice versa. The farmers needed to have the means to clearly communicate their specific local problems to the upper levels of control and to receive relevant answers in an intelligible form. In many cases ritual could have worked to transduce specific observations of the Pleiades (on which see below) or of animal and plant behaviors (i.e., analogue information) to arrive at a sanctified consensus as to when to irrigate or whether to sow or not (binary information). For example, an unusual spate of flash floods (Quechua huayco) might damage the local fields and irrigation canals to such a degree that their reparation is beyond the capabilities of the traditionally employed communal work procedures, and thus expected yields are significantly reduced. The pertinent information (date of occurrence, types of crops, quantity lost, offerings made to the apu, etc.) would be channeled up the administrative hierarchy and cross-checked with the relevant khipu registers concerning the state of the storage silos (qollqa), climate forecasters, and the like, for other areas. Transduction would be involved in many of these processes. The basic idea of transduction involves how a society should be organized so that when the state has to intervene to rectify some imbalance that cannot be coped with locally, it can do so with a minimum of effort and delay. The Inka state needed to know when, under what circumstances, and at what scale an intervention would be necessary. A basic requirement was that the encoding of the celestial order in the terrestrial landscape share a common algorithmic base through all levels of scale, even though the particular events observed and procedures used might be quite different.11 Effective administration of a complex heterogeneous environment requires the least effort when information processing and decision making are distributed throughout the system (Azadegan and Dooley 2010) and when the system itself is organized into hierarchical levels that are structurally the same but of different scales. The social units at each level or node should be articulated by combined self-regulation and mutual regulation—so that the need for intervention by higher levels can be minimized and the time available for widescale and long-term planning and development maximized. The organizing principles operating through the whole system should be clearly spelled out in as many ways as possible and replicated at every level of scale. Moray would function as an instantiation of these

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common organizing principles. For example, extreme cases of macroclimatic perturbations that decimate the microclimatic sector structure would, as mentioned above, replicate on a small scale the conditions experienced in the terraces of the wider area. Indications of a prolonged drought that could impede the watering of the maize at silking time would probably be discerned in the behavior of the crops on the Moray terraces, triggering appropriate decision making at higher levels before the entire Cuzco harvest was damaged. Coordination Andean society has developed many complex organizational strategies for the coordination of the multiple parallel activities involved in effective risk dispersion. More specifically, the management of separate fields in various production zones necessarily involves interpersonal and intergroup cooperation throughout the Andes (Golte 1980; Earls 2006b; Mayer 1985, 2004). For small, localized face-to-face groups of agriculturists, a roughly approximate calendrical compatibility of the seasons with the main astronomical cycles would suffice for effective coordination of field activities such as sowing or watering. On the other hand, control structures in politically independent and spatially separated autonomous local communities could operate with different time-counting systems, with the relevant information passing from neighbor to neighbor. Within each group, decisions on programming collective activities could be arrived at consensually and the corrective intercalations made in an ad hoc manner (Turton and Ruggles 1978). The lack of a common calendar shared by all, however, makes intergroup coordination difficult, and perhaps even impossible, for large-scale composite political systems.12 Proposed Explanation of the System at Moray While most authors recognize the relation of the calendar time units to the specific agricultural activities in this region of the Andes—at least by month names (e.g., July and October are known as chawa warkis [soil purification] and uma raymi [water festival], respectively)—few have paid attention to the actual mechanics of just how the calendar would have functioned for agricultural programming (Earls 1986, 1989; Urton 2006; Orlove et al. 2000, 2002; Araujo 2008; Zuidema 2011). As we have seen above, the altitude/climatic

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gradients giving rise to greater microclimatic sensitivity, combined with the increase in climatic uncertainty with altitude (Winterhalder 1994), create substantial difficulties for agricultural programming in the vertical dimension and exacerbate the coordination problem for dispersed groups. The Moray system’s structure extended and systematized the astronomical calendar intercalation process to local agricultural cycles. Earls proposes that the muyu sectors had the purpose of simulating the microclimatic structures of other larger terrace systems and so facilitating the overall coordination between them. It also could have allowed the testing of crop behavior for different conditions of water availability and environmental heat (Earls 1989, 2006a). The geometry of the muyu enables the interplay of the solar exposition and hydraulic structure and thus generates distinctive microclimatic patterning over the terraces. Earls’s interpretation is that the embedded calendar in Moray would have served to calibrate the maturation time of crops to the distinct microclimatic conditions in the terrace sectors. The Inkas used the system’s structure to extend the astronomical calendar intercalation process to the variable agro-climatic cycles. Earls has argued (2011) that solstice observations of the Pleiades were used as a hinge to correlate both types of cycles. As seen above, the best estimate for the onset of the “noon sunset” event on the 9.N mound is twenty-seven days prior to the winter solstice, May 25, one sidereal lunar month before the solstice (and ending one sidereal month after it, July 18). From documentary evidence and from measurements of temple architectural alignments, it has been shown that observations made on May 25 were used by the Inkas for intercalating the lunar synodic months with the Pleiades heliacal sequence (rises and sets) and the sidereal lunar cycle, and these with the solar year (Zuidema 1982, 2011:790– 795). The first new moon after this date makes for a full moon near June 7 and a new moon again on or around the winter solstice (Zuidema 2007:276). A principal wall structure of the Coricancha temple (the hub of the ceque system—see below) in Cuzco is aligned to the sunrise azimuths on May 25 and July 18. The period between these two dates is associated with the observation of the heliacal rise of the Pleiades as registered in the Coricancha alignment on June 7 (Aveni 1981; Zuidema 1982, 2011:790–794). Nevertheless, the actual day when it can be visually observed varies sig-

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nificantly with the prevailing weather conditions (see below). The heliacal rises and sets of this constellation served as a reference metric for the correlation of the solar and lunar cycles as deduced from the relative visibility and positioning of the three objects (sun, moon, and Pleiades) in this period. There is no archaeoastronomical empirical evidence as yet for just how the Pleiades heliacal rise was expressed at Moray itself; however, we assume that it was. In the present day the star cluster is observed from the neighboring community of Misminay on June 24 (Urton 2006), as in most Andean communities, and its visual attributes are used for programming the agricultural calendars. In southern Peru and Bolivia, El Niño events are associated with poor rainfalls and delay in their arrival later in the year. Analysis of satellite images correlates the higher sea temperatures on these occasions with increased high cirrus cloud formations, which diminish the brightness of the Pleiades by up to 25 percent and thus delay the visibility of the heliacal rise, as shown by Orlove et al. (2000, 2002). These visual attributes function as a measure of the rains to come and the relative date of their arrival, that is, indicating whether to prepare for an early or a late planting season. Thus the date of the heliacal rise of the cluster can be empirically related to determining the optimal date for the opening of the agricultural season. These authors conclude that the visibility of the Pleiades provides a more accurate midterm forecast of the coming climatic conditions than do the forecasts of modern meteorology. Given the structuring of microclimatic engineering and its articulation with embedded astronomical cycles, it is reasonable to suppose that this was also the practice at Moray, that is, that the Pleiades served as a reference metric for both types of cycles. The observations made at the Coricancha in Cuzco and many other Andean sites would have been replicated in Moray. The Inka Ceque System and the Inka Calendar The Inka state was organized as an administrative hierarchy based on recursive dual/quadric and quinary/ decimal partitions (see chapter 10, by Cummins); its structure is explicitly expressed in the khipu accounting devices (Zuidema 1983, 2011; Urton and Brezine 2007; see chapter 9, by Urton), a sophisticated record-

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ing apparatus based on the patterned distribution of knots on strings (see below). The khipu, in turn, has the same structure as the ceque system (Zuidema 2011:14, his figure 1.3.1a). The elaborate ceque (Quechua term for “line” or “ray”) system in Cuzco incorporated and expressed the complex Inka calendar. The system consisted of 328 land sites marked mostly by notable topographical features such as springs, prominent rock formations, and caves, all referred to as huacas, sacred places or objects. These loci were grouped onto forty-one hierarchically ordered imaginary lines (ceques) radiating out of the Coricancha temple. Each ceque was associated with a particular social group, and its place in the overall ceque system expressed its position in the prevailing political hierarchy. The lines were grouped into larger units, and these again into still-larger units; the whole system was intended to replicate the entire Inka social order. Maintenance of huacas and performance of rituals associated with them was assigned to specific Cuzco social groups. Zuidema has shown that the 328 huacas correspond to the days of the sidereal lunar calendar year (27.3 days x 12 months =~ 328 days), and that these are intercalated to the solar calendar by means of astronomical alignments (e.g., those of the solar and star rises and sets as seen from Cuzco; Zuidema 1964, 1977, 1982, 1999, 2011). Sherbondy (1994:69–97) has shown that irrigation in Inka Cuzco was organized in terms of this system. There is evidence that the ceque system order was replicated at smaller scale in towns and villages throughout the empire (Bauer 2000:178; Zuidema 2011:15–21). The Inkas recorded state-level information in khipus. Calendars and all sorts of statistics were also encoded in these strings, as were narrative texts. These devices were also used at regional and subregional administrative levels (Urton 2003; Zuidema 1989; Salomon 2004). However, they were not used by ordinary farmers— as was true for writing systems in general prior to the Industrial Revolution. Relevant local information had to be “convertible” into khipu code. A recent study by Frank Meddens (2006) sheds much light on the encoding mechanisms and the structure of agro-astronomical communication at different levels of the Inka state. Meddens gives documentary sources for clusters of carved stones that are widely distributed in the Andes as well as in other parts of the world. He catalogues some forty rocks in the ChichaSoras river basin (in the south-central highlands of

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Peru) that date to the Inka period and possess particular cup-shaped carvings. He shows that these stones are placed at specific points of transition in the landscape: at the confluence of tributaries; at irrigation intakes, where land usage changes; and so forth. At one stone—a gnomon-like monolith—on one particular date—August 23, 1999—the long shadow cast as the sun set was aligned with the rising moon, and also with the entry point to the valley of an ancient irrigation channel. Meddens (2006:47) posits that the very good alignment he observed here would occur only once in the course of the nineteen-year Metonic cycle (2006:47). In this case it could have functioned to intercalate the solar and lunar calendars (see note 2). He also suggests that this information could be translatable into the khipu system, as were the huacas of the ceques. Any complex agricultural system that relies on nonwritten records would be dependent on highly visible landscape features for coordination of farmers at the local level (Meddens 2006:57–58). By analogy with Meddens’s study, parts of Moray could be understood as a huge version of that particular carved rock, producing intercalary visual events. Archaeoastronomical research confirms that astronomical calendar events are encoded into a great number of rocks and other features of the greater Cuzco landscape, as well as into the buildings; many of these have specific alignments to the horizon, marking sunrise and/or sunset on key dates like the solstices, zenith and antizenith transits, heliacal rise/sets, and so forth. (Aveni 1981; Bauer 2000; Bauer and Dearborn 1995; Magli 2005; Gullberg 2010). Colonial records describe a group of four pillars (sucanca) placed along the horizon that, as seen from Cuzco, marked the sunset positions from June to September. One document clearly states that the passing of the sun between each successive pair of pillars specified the periods for commencing the appropriate agricultural year in the three vertical production zones of the Cuzco area (anonymous [ca. 1570] 1906; Earls 1986; Zuidema 2005, 2011). In modern Andean communities the celestial order is explicitly “mapped in” to terrestrial space as interdependent components of a universal order (Urton 1988, 2006). Pilgrimage as Andean Transducer A pilgrimage is characterized as a long journey made by dispersed groups of believers to a sacred shrine, as an act of religious devotion that is carried out at speci-

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140  JOHN C. EARLS AND GABRIELA CERVANTES

Figure 8.11. Map showing position of Moray within the Inka inner and outer heartland, illustrating associated ceques. (Drawing by Gabriela Cervantes and adapted from Farrington 1992:376)

fied times in specified places. Pilgrimages are related in narrative terms (i.e., in myth) with the origin and the foundation of entire political and religious systems and with the corresponding agricultural calendar order embodied in these. The sequential movements made by pilgrims and their narrative expression in myth can be seen as different, but mutually consistent, encodings of this universal order. The timing, location, and nature of Inka ritual performance (i.e., offerings to the huacas and to associated spiritual entities) were specified in the calendar by astronomical observations. The timing of the ritual signals the initiation of an important agricultural activity (e.g., sowing) at a specific ecological/production zone. However, since the “fit” between the astronomical and

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the seasonal cycles was rather loose, the exact date for the initiation of an activity, and probably for an associated ritual, would be advanced or delayed according to the prevailing climatic configuration (see “Calendar and Astronomy” and “Soil Temperature and Agricultural Technology” above). Thus, many ritual activities can be seen as procedures of the decision-making administrative process. The Spaniards never witnessed an actual Inka pilgrimage, so just how these were carried out has to be inferred from secondary sources, from which many of the details were, unfortunately, omitted. It is likely that the rituals linked to the exact astronomical observations associated with an agricultural activity were coupled to rituals that were carried out on the date of the activity itself. For example, in present-

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day Maras, the Virgin of the Ascension, associated with the start of the sowing season, is celebrated on August 15, although the actual planting is not usually possible until a month later (see Urton 2006). (This date is close to that of the Inka observation of the solar anti-zenith transit, August 18, which has the same agricultural association.) The ritual activities and the specific sequential order in which they are carried out in the course of this particular pilgrimage can be seen as a fitting-together of the astronomical, eco-climatic, and agricultural cycles, with the goal of bringing about a new harvest. For this case study, ritual could have worked to transduce specific observations of the Pleiades or animal and plant behaviors (i.e., analogue information) to arrive at a collective consensus as to when to irrigate or sow (yes/no options, or binary information). An important proposition of this paper is that pilgrims or functionaries at different levels of the state administrative hierarchy in diverse areas converged at Moray on specified dates to receive instructions on their respective agricultural labors and to gain a synoptic view of how the agricultural, calendrical, and ritual cycles articulated. Pilgrimage to Moray, then, was a means to facilitate effective agricultural coordination on large scales. Andean Pilgrimages and Symmetrical Inversions (Mirror Images) Zuidema (1999, 2005, 2011) elucidates the configuration of a pilgrimage sequence in which the Cuzco-­ centric cosmological order was clearly spelled out on at least two levels of scale. Farrington (1992) distinguishes these levels as the “inner” and “outer” Inka heartlands (fig. 8.11). The inner heartland is the area that is circumscribed by the upper Huatanay (the river that passes through Cuzco) drainage basin and is delimited by the outermost ceque shrines located on the surrounding hills. The hills of Quiancalla to the northwest of Cuzco (on ceque I2a) and Huanacauri (ceque II2a) to the southeast marked the inner heartland observations of the June solstice sunset and the December solstice sunrise, as seen from the city center at Coricancha. The outer heartland, on the other hand, is defined by the mountain divide of the upper Urubamba (refers to lower reaches of the Vilcanota River) basin and associated with extensions of the ceques beyond the Huatanay basin. The extensions of the above-mentioned ceques along the same northwest–southeast alignment to the town of Ollantaytambo on the lower Urubamba River

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and the Vilcanota shrine at the headwaters of this river mark the outer heartland. At both levels of scale, the structure of the mapping between the celestial and the terrestrial orders was replicated and defined in the spatial and temporal organization of the pilgrimage cycles. The defining sites—Vilcanota, Huanacauri, Cuzco, Quiancalla, and Ollantaytambo—form a nearly straight line from the December (summer) solstice sunrise point in the southeast to the June (winter) solstice sunset in the northwest (Zuidema 1999, 2005, 2011:286). Zuidema terms this northwest–southeast axis the “solstitial axis.” The pilgrimages to shrines located along ceques were conducted by Inka functionaries called tarpuntay; this word was translated by the Spaniards as “priests of the Sun,” but it actually means “planter” in Quechua. In this respect Zuidema mentions that “the sequence and timing of their different rituals at different huacas were of concern to all phases of agriculture from before irrigation, through the ploughing, sowing, and planting (= tarpuy), till harvest and storage of the crops” (Zuidema 1999). The timing of the performance of these rituals would have marked the limits (beginning or ending) of a particular agricultural activity. The cycle of the pilgrimages to shrines and rituals performed there opened, during the Inka month of the June solstice, with daily processions in which the priests/planters symbolically simulated the course of the sun as projected onto the landscape (and for that reason was termed the “solstice axis”). The June solstice sunset over Quiancalla was observed by the Inca king from a nearby temple to the northeast of Cuzco. One procession was made to the solar temple at Vilcanota; the site is aligned to the December solstice sunrise as seen from Cuzco and is located at a high-altitude pass marking the separation of the zone of irrigated maize cultivation from that of rain-fed root crops (e.g., potatoes). The sequence ended with a ritual race in the night whose date was calculated from the new moon after the December solstice and the following full moon—that is, at the height of the rainy season. It took place at a lower-altitude city (e.g., Ollantaytambo) marking off the maize zone from the tropical rainforest below. In terms of control theory, the ritual expressed the management of the irrigation canals under the impact of heavy rains (i.e., hoping for the rain to stop). The pucuy/ chirao (pucuy from Quechua indicating “rainy season,” and chirao, “dry season”) “seasonal” axis—calendrically defined by the observational alignments of the solar

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zenith and anti-zenith transits—marked the principal stages of major agricultural activities and their accompanying rituals. The yearly cycle of pilgrimages, rituals, astronomical observations, and agricultural activities is centered in the Coricancha, as are the ceques. The southeast–­ northwest solstitial axis runs roughly parallel to the course of the Urubamba River. This gives rise to a number of spatial and temporal symmetries (Zuidema 2011:286, his fig. 4.2.2). As seen from Cuzco, the direction of a December solstice sunrise in the southeast is on the same sight line as the June solstice sunset to the northwest, and is associated with a half-year time-lag in the seasonal cycle and thus to the water-flow cycle of the river. The ritual movements associated with the June solstice included a visit to the horizon feature marking the December solstice. Such inversions of symmetry are expressed in the accompanying ritual events. The procession and races downriver from Cuzco to Ollantaytambo and back express an inverted symmetry to the upriver movements to Vilcanota and back (Zuidema 2011:292–297; Farrington 1992). In both cases a movement in one direction along the sinuous “natural” river path was coupled to a race in the straightest line possible in the opposite direction. Similar symmetries are expressed in the seasonal axis. Zuidema (2011:356) suggests that the solstitial and seasonal axes were mutually integrated into a general system that categorized space and time in a way that was analogous to the latitude and longitude coordinated in modern maps. (Ay)muray: The Harvesting Time? There is reason to suppose that the name “Moray” is derived from the Inka lunar month of Aymuray (“the time to gather the harvest”).13 In the Zuidema model of the Inka calendar, Aymuray is the sixth month (the first month [Camay Quilla] ended at the summer solstice) and had a particular relation to the ceque system. It began on May 3 and ended on June 8; it covered the thirty-seven-day interval between the 365-day solar year and the 328-day sidereal calendar (again, based on 27.3 days/month x 12 months) marked by the ceque huacas (365 – 328 = 37). Zuidema (2011:790–795) calculates that the ceque calendar count began on June 9 and was announced by the observation of the heliacal rise of the Pleiades a few days earlier. The star cluster itself cannot be seen at night

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from its heliacal set on April 16 until its rise again June 3 because of the glare of the sun. It has been seen above (in “Transduction and Coordination”) that the date of the first observation of the Pleiades heliacal rise in the dry-/chirao-season month of Aymuray is a reliable indicator of the later arrival of the rainy season (pucuy) and the subsequent programming of agricultural activities. Moray is located near the extension of ceque I2a, that is, along the line drawn from Cuzco through Quiancalla to Ollantaytambo. The straight-line path of the ritual race expressing the solstitial axis from Ollantaytambo back to Cuzco passes very close to Moray (see fig. 8.11). Of relevance here is that the huaca—Senqa—on the I2b ceque, and thus of the same ceque group I2, was considered the Ayarmaca paqarina (“place of dawning” in Quechua), or the sacred place of origin in time and space. The group linked to the I2b ceque is called Hatun ayllu (or Iñaca panaca; a panaca is a lineage formed by male descendants of each Inka ruler). The month of Aymuray then was not part of the ceque sidereal calendar but was incorporated administratively into the ceque system landscape. While the month itself and its general characteristics surely date from early Inka or pre-Inkaic Ayarmaca times, many sources associate it with the reorganization of the state carried out by Huayna Capac. The persistent presentday tradition informs us that this Inka lives in his palace beneath Moray and that every year the apus (Pumahuanca, Wañuymarca, Chumbivilcas, Ausangate, etc.) assemble there to be assigned their annual tasks in the Cuzco region (see above). This tradition is consonant with the dispositions of the Inka Huayna Capac made in the month of Aymuray. The early colonial writer Juan de Betanzos states that all the provincial governors bringing their gifts (“tributes”) to Huayna Capac were assembled and delegated their respective agricultural labors (Zuidema 2011:738–744). This is not to say that the Inka actually did all this at the site of Moray, but that the site is still associated with what he is stated to have done in ancient times. Finally, we can note that this month was also associated with the exchange of gifts brought in from the exterior regions as part of an ongoing fiesta in Maras (described above). The quality and quantity of these gifts set the exchange rates for the different regions’ products and analogically express the productivity achieved over the previous season. The state of the tribute gifts brought to Huayna Capac in Inka times would have served to transduce this information into the “digi-

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talized” decision-making tasks delegated to the respective provincial governors. Conclusions and Future Research The climatic and astronomical information presented in this chapter constitutes empirically established “hard” data; the argument used places Moray within the Inka administrative system and cosmology. A control system was embodied in the Inka state, and Moray was an integral part of it. Since there were only a few dozen permanent residents at the site, these would surely have been functionaries at different levels of the control hierarchy who were responsible for the administration of distinct territorial units and the control of the pilgrimages during specific calendrical events and the corresponding agricultural sequences. The solstice display and other calendar events would have served to give the tarpuntay (priests/planters) and the other participating “pilgrims” a synoptic view of the whole heartland system as projected into the relatively small space of Moray. In part the display of the events at the solstice had a similar function as Greenwich Mean Time today—to set a standardized reference time; but more than this, Moray can be said to have functioned as a model or microcosm of the wider Inka organization. Many issues raised in this chapter remain rather tentative, or even speculative, and can be resolved only by future research across various disciplinary and subdisciplinary lines. If it is accepted that Moray functioned as a small-scale model of the Inka agricultural system, then it can be reasonably proposed that the most straightforward way of resolving many of the difficulties would be to construct a computer-simulation model of Moray. In the first place, it is likely that the Moray zenith and anti-zenith transit observations inferred here were accompanied by sun and shade visual events, as are the solstices and the equinoxes; it is, however, very hard to determine from where to observe them in the system and at what time they might occur. The annual and daily movements of the sun and the corresponding shadows cast over the all the muyus (see fig. 8.9) could be reasonably well reproduced in a three-dimensional digital elevation model. Other patterns relating to sidereal and lunar events might be indicated in such a simulation, and these later evaluated by targeted on-the-ground fieldwork observations. Second, the climatic and microclimatic structure of the system could be modeled and

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the agro-metabolic response of particular crops simulated for a range of conditions—in particular for the soil temperature, the availability of water, and the frequency of irrigation. The results would be useful in the design of the empirical agricultural experiments that necessarily have to be made; the results of these could then be incorporated to refine the simulation. At the same time, much more archaeological, ethnohistorical, and ethnographic research is needed to elucidate many of the interpretational issues based on “soft” data mentioned in the body of the chapter. The general consensus by most investigators is that the site was never finished, and from this it is inferred that many of the fundamental engineering problems of this particular setting were not yet resolved by the Inkas. Earls suspects that the construction was carried out over various stages, and that errors often occurred that occasioned recalculations and structural redesigns. Much more research on the history of the construction process of the site is needed, and its place in the general Inka order must be better established. Finally, it must be pointed out that other archaeological sites with concentric terraces like Moray are known. Horkheimer (1973) mentions one near Rumicolca, southeast of Cuzco, and one he saw from a plane in Castrovirreyna, Huancavelica. Tim Tillman (pers. comm., 1985) visited a Moray-like site in Carania, Cañete, and Hilda Araujo (pers. comm., 2011) registers one in the Paccha site, near Huancayo. In the Colca Canyon, near the towns of Coporaque and Yanque, the river bisects a massive concentric terrace structure in which maize is grown. All these Moray-like structures have been accidentally observed so it can be assumed that there are other similar sites as yet unreported. At least some of these may have had functions similar to those of Moray, but for different eco-climatic conditions. Acknowledgments We express our thanks to Izumi Shimada, whose many suggestions and clarifications of the various drafts of the paper were of great help in the structuring of the arguments and for the intelligibility of its development. We also thank Kerri Cox Sullivan, copy editor for the University of Texas Press, for her extensive support. Any mistakes are, of course, the responsibility of the authors.

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Notes

1. We are here using “cosmology” in the anthropological sense of the term. Classical Western astrophysical cosmology has endeavored to distinguish strongly between the laws that govern human social behavior and those governing material nature. In recent years complexity theory is showing that this distinction may not be valid; see, for example, Chaisson 2001. 2. This is usually done by way of longer-term cycles defined by coinciding phases in the shorter ones. For example, the Metonic cycle, which specifies the correlation of 235 synodic months to 19 tropical years, was known by ancient astronomers in many parts of the world. However, it produces a day’s error every 219 years. The precession of the equinoxes gives rise to long-term errors. 3. The term “phase lapse” refers to average temperature/ altitude gradient (–6.5°C/1,000 m) of the near-surface air layer (at 150 cm), given a constant slope angle and solar exposure. A slope with these physical constraints will be referred to here as a “standard slope.” In real mountain environments the actual temperature at a given altitude varies significantly from one place to another as a result of their particular topographic features. In air columns removed from the influence of the mountain surface, the temperature gradient is –10°C/1,000 m and is referred to as “adiabatic gradient.” The advective flow of air to and from the mountain causes the up-and-down diurnal pattern of mountain winds. Certain topographical irregularities can give rise to “cold air dams” that greatly alter, or even reverse, the gradient (Geiger 1950:195–203; Earls 2006c). 4. The relation between the growth rate of crops and environmental temperature differences is referred to as the “Q10 coefficient,” which measures the ratio between the growth rates at T + 10°C and at T°C. In normal conditions its value is usually about 2 (see Earls 2006:131–135). 5. The desire to consolidate and maintain social order in the midst of such environmental uncertainty has led to some very creative thinking in Andean society and in the state apparatus. Many agricultural technologies—such as irrigation systems, reservoirs, terraces, raised fields, etc.—contribute to risk control. Andean practices such as field dispersion, simultaneous cultivation of multiple crops, management of parallel agricultural calendars, use of production zones, etc., are risk-control technological strategies. Another aspect of this is the generalized observation of astronomical, meteorological, and biological indicators for weather forecasting (Goland 1993; Golte 1970; Orlove et al. 2000; Trawick 2002). 6. Evans and Winterhalder (2000) have made a generalized analysis of solar radiation as an agronomic feature in relation to agricultural productivity on mountain terraces. They note that most researchers treat these as secondary or epiphenomenal factors. 7. The relative humidity and the air temperatures near the surface were also recorded for each site, but with large instrumental inaccuracies. 8. IS35: growing degree days (GDD) are a measure of the daily heat accumulated by a plant. This is calculated by summing the average daily temperatures above a specific base temperature

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necessary for the plant’s growth. For maize the base temperature is 10°C. 9. Previous analysis has shown that during the dry season, solar radiation is the principal determinant of soil temperatures throughout the system, excluding the humid S I terraces (Earls 1989:243–249). 10. We make a more thorough analysis of the Wright et al. study (2011) in a work in preparation. 11. Urton has described a local algorithmic formulation of the Andean celestial order in a modern community: interestingly enough, he highlights the farmers’ insistence that you cannot understand the sky if you do not already understand the earth (Urton 2006). 12. In ancient China the different states that made up the Zhou Dynasty had their own methods for deciding their intercalary months and days. The consequent systemic disarticulation could have contributed to the disruptions of the Warring States. The subsequent Qin Dynasty introduced a systematic global calendar that standardized intercalation. In Rome similar problems (the “years of confusion”) preceded Julius Caesar’s establishment of the Julian calendar in 46 b.c.e. There is evidence of analogous political upheavals in the development of the Inka state calendar (Earls 1986). 13. Cerrón-Palomino (2011) indicates that both names were incorporated into Quechua from the word mora of the nowextinct Puquina language, where it also had a connotation of “center.” Bibliography Anonymous

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“The Inca Calendar.” In Native American Astronomy, ed. A. Aveni, 219–259. Austin: University of Texas Press. 1982 “Catachillay: The Role of the Pleiades and of the Southern Cross and A and B Centauri in the Calendar of the Incas.” In Ethnoastronomy and Archaeoastronomy in the American Tropics, ed. Anthony F. Aveni and Gary Urton, 203–229. Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences 385. New York. 1983 “Hierarchy and Space in Incaic Social Organization.” Ethnohistory 30:49–75. 1989 “A Quipu Calendar from Ica, Peru, with a Comparison to the Ceque Calendar from Cuzco.” In World Archaeoastronomy, ed. Anthony F. Aveni, 341–351. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1999 “Pilgrimage and Ritual Movements in Cuzco and the Inca Empire.” Paper presented at the International Workshop on the Cosmology and Complexity of Pilgrimage, Indira Gandhi National Center for the Arts, 1977

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Jan. 5–9, New Delhi. http://www.colorado.edu /Conferences/pilgrimage/papers/Zuidema.html. 2005 “The Astronomical Significance of a Procession, a Pilgrimage, and a Race in the Calendar of Cuzco.” In Current Studies in Archaeoastronomy: Conversations across Time and Space. Selected Papers from the Fifth “Oxford” International Conference at Santa Fe, 1996, ed. John W. Fountain and Rolf M. Sinclair, 353–366. Durham: Carolina Academic Press. 2007 “Solar and Lunar Observations in the Inca Calendar.” In Skywatching in the Ancient World: New Perspectives in Cultural Astronomy. Studies in Honor of Anthony F. Aveni, ed. Clive Ruggles and Gary Urton, 261–278. Boulder: University of Colorado Press. 2011 El calendario inca: Tiempo y espacio en la organización ritual del Cuzco. La idea del pasado. Lima: Congreso del Perú/PUCP.

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CHAPTER 9

The State of Strings Khipu Administration in the Inka Empire Gary Urton

In each provincial capital they had accountants called khipukamayuqs [knot-keepers/organizers], and by these knots they kept the records and accounting of what had been given as tribute by those in that district, from the silver, gold, clothing, and herd animals, down to the firewood and other lesser things, and by these same khipus that were commissioned over one year, or ten or twenty, the accounts were so accurate that a pair of sandals would not be lost. Cieza de León (1551) 1967:36

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To read Cieza’s narrative, it would seem that the Inkas had devised a remarkably efficient system for overseeing the collection, management, and disposal of goods and resources that were of interest to the state in settlements throughout the provinces of their vast empire, which stretched some five thousand kilometers along the spine of the Andes, from the border between present-­day Ecuador and Colombia southward to central Chile. What is especially interesting about Cieza’s account is that he credits Inka administrative accomplishments directly to the information retained in a knotted-string recording device, the khipu (or quipu; fig. 9.1a, b). While we have learned a good deal about the khipu’s recording capacities in recent times (Ascher and Ascher 1997; Conklin 2002; Urton 2003), nonetheless there remains a question as to just how these colorful knotted cords could have encoded such a wide variety of information, and in as complex an array of forms, as is claimed for them not only by Cieza but by a host of other Spanish commentators as well. The question, then, is whether we can not only say with confidence, but also demonstrate, that Inka cord-keeping throughout their far-flung territories was as highly informative and as effective as is claimed of them by colonial observers. In order to attempt to address this basic question concerning the nature of Inka administration by means of the khipus, we should begin by acknowledging a few circumstances that affect our ability to identify and evaluate critically the characteristics of that system. Whatever were its indigenous components and characteristics, as a functioning and effective set of institutions and practices of accounting and controls the Inka administrative system had all but collapsed during the first few decades following the Spanish con-

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Figure 9.1a. Large khipu from Peruvian highland site of Lake of the Condors, Chachapoyas. Centro Mallqui, Leymebamba. (Photo Gary Urton)

Figure 9.1b. Tiered knots on a khipu. No provenance; American Museum of Natural History, New York; #41.2/6994. (Photo Gary Urton)

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quest, which began in 1532. This period of destabilization, or what Wachtel called “destructuration” (1977), occurred several decades before the first comprehensive descriptions of the administrative system were written down in the Spanish chronicles and administrative documents. In addition, the question arises of how confident we can be that informants who provided colonial accounts of Inka administration did not skew or misrepresent the system out of concern for political considerations (see chapter 2, by Salomon). And finally, we must bear in mind that we do not possess early colonial meta-­commentaries on the Inka administrative system provided by Inka administrative officials themselves, in a script that we are able to read today. All we have are examples of knotted cords whose decipherment (assuming that such is even possible) continues to elude us. It is not my intention to repeat in great detail the information on, and interpretations of, Inka administrative institutions and practices contained in earlier studies of these matters (e.g., Julien 1988; Murra 1975, 1982; Pärssinen 1992; Pease 1982; Rostworowski [1988] 2006; Rowe 1982). These studies have informed us deeply on the basic features of Inka administration as reconstructed via study of the Spanish chronicles and administrative documents—especially the visitas, or descriptions of administrative “visits” to locales, by Spanish officials (see chapters 2 and 6, by Salomon and

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Covey, respectively). While I will indeed draw initially on material in these sources, I will move as directly as possible to the aspect of that system I am most qualified to comment on and that has received scant attention to date—cord-keeping. Having myself spent almost twenty years in close study of the corpus of extant khi­ pus currently housed in museums in South America, Europe, and the United States (see, e.g., Urton 1994, 2003; Urton and Brezine 2011), it is my intention here to draw on data from the knotted-cord records in order to demonstrate how the organizational features of this complicated system were structured, maintained, and manipulated by the khipukamayuqs (“knot-makers/ organizers”), the Inka record keepers. I note that some 850 samples are currently housed in museum collections around the world.1 The vast majority of extant samples came from burials located in the dry Pacific coastal deserts of Peru and northern Chile, where conditions for the preservation of textiles are very good. Only one collection, which is made up of thirty-two samples found in a cave site in Chachapoyas, northern Peru, derives from the highlands, where preservation is poor. Due to the low representation of highland samples, we believe that the corpus of samples available for study today lacks the diversity of features and types that would have characterized the full complement in imperial Inka times. This is particularly significant with respect to the question of materials; most coastal samples are made of cotton, whereas we believe that in the highlands, home of the great herds of domesticated camelids (llamas, alpacas, and their hybrids), khipus would have been made primarily of camelid fiber. The discussion is divided into three sections: state, provincial, and local. This parsing of the levels of Inka administrative organization is a variation on similar approaches in earlier studies. For instance, in his study of the state administrative organization among the Chupachu, an ethnic group of the central Peruvian highlands, LeVine notes that testimony recorded in the visitas described how initial Inka reorganization of the valley had delegated power among four principales [political leaders] in charge of sociopolitical divisions known as waranqa [“thousands (of tribute households)”]. Subleaders were assigned within the four waranqa, each of which had an ideal of ten pachaka (a unit composed of one hundred heads of households). Each pachaka principal controlled from one to five villages or hamlets in this region of small, scattered settlements. (LeVine 1987:24)

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The principal resource I will draw on in discussing cord-keeping is the Khipu Database (KDB), a searchable electronic database maintained at Harvard University.2 An Overview of Inka Administration The overview of the administration of Tawantinsuyu that follows is constructed top-down, beginning with a look at institutions, officials, and administrative procedures in Cuzco, moving down (and outward) to provincial administrative centers and then, finally, to local settlements. It is important to stress that there was a considerable amount of variation across Tawantinsuyu in terms of how local populations were organized and precisely which administrative procedures were in place to oversee populations from one region to the next (see, for example, chapters 16 and 17, by Hayashida and Guzmán, and Schjellerup, respectively). This is particularly true, for instance, of the extent to which decimal administration, a form of organization highly touted in certain of the chronicles, was actually in place, and served effectively to organize local work groups throughout the many provinces of the empire. State/Imperial Organization in Cuzco, the Capital In early colonial sources, the Inka Empire is referred to as Tawantinsuyu, which we can gloss as “the four parts intimately bound together.” The four parts in question were known as Chinchaysuyu, Antisuyu, Collasuyu, and Cuntisuyu. At the heart of this quadripartite organization was the Inka capital city, Cuzco, located in the southeastern part of present-day Peru. Cuzco was the center of supreme power and authority in the Inka Empire. It was here that the Inka king—the Sapa Inka (“unique/only Inka”)—reigned at court along with the Coya, his queen. The administrative apparatus in Cuzco was staffed by direct and/or collateral descendants of the ten to twelve Inka kings who had ruled in the city over what was a surprisingly brief life history for so grand an empire. At the top of the administrative hierarchy in Cuzco and the empire stood the Inka. The indigenous chronicler Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala ([1615:359– 364] 1980:330–336) describes a number of officials who saw to the everyday needs and interests of the king

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at court. Most immediately, the Inka was attended to by a secretary (“Yncap cimin quipococ,” “he who carries the account of the words of the Inka”), a head accountant and treasurer (“Tawantin Suyo runa quipoc Yncap,” “he who carries the accounting of the people and goods of Tawantinsuyu”), and a council of four great lords, or Apus, each of whom was responsible to the Inka for the affairs in one or another of the four suyus of Tawantinsuyu. The Apus formed what Guaman Poma referred to as the Consejo Real, the “royal council,” a body that was served by a secretary, the “Tawantin Suyo capac Yncacanap cimin quipococ” (“he who carries the words of the Inka and the lords/Apus”). These were the principal authorities at the heart of what we could term “civil governance” in the Inka capital. However, what we classify as civil affairs, on the one hand, and as religious affairs, on the other, were never far apart in Inka statecraft. In this respect, therefore, we must include the chief priest of Inka religious matters, the Villac Umu, as well as the hierarchy of officials he oversaw in Cuzco and throughout the empire among those deeply involved in what we would normally identify as civil administration. In addition to listing the principal offices and administrative bodies in the capital, it is important to take note of an institution, the so-called ceque system, in relation to which all daily activities in Cuzco were organized (Zuidema 1964; see chapter 8, by Earls and Cervantes, esp. fig. 8.11). The forty-one (or forty-two) ceques that made up this system were (invisible) alignments of sacred places—called huacas—located in and immediately around the city; these were the sites where important events had occurred in the formation of the ancient capital. Each of the huacas received sacrificial offerings on a particular day of the year. The ceque system, the city itself, and the empire as a whole were divided into moieties (“halves”; units resulting from the dual division of a social group or society: Hanan/ upper Cuzco and Hurin/lower Cuzco), each of which was further subdivided into two parts; these four parts constituted the basic organization of Tawantinsuyu. Within the quarters, the ceques were generally arranged in repeating three-term hierarchical groupings, the constituent elements of which were designated (from highest to lowest) as collana, payan, and cayao (see Zuidema 1964). The performance of daily rituals and sacrifices at the some 328–350 huacas—one day devoted to rites at each site—plus an unnamed, extraritual period of rest

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made up the full annual calendar of 365 days in the capital and the empire as a whole. What made this ritual/ calendrical system political, and therefore of relevance to a discussion of state administration, was the fact that specific royal and/or nonroyal kin groups—called, respectively, panacas and ayllus—were responsible for sacrificial offerings at the huacas assigned to them along their patrimonial ceque(s). What this meant was that specific sectors of the terrain in and around the city, as well as specific segments of time in the annual calendar, were related to one or another of the ten panacas and/ or the ten ayllus into which the population in the capital was divided (Zuidema 1982). Information pertaining to the ceque system of the city of Cuzco was recorded on a khipu (Bauer 1997) that was transcribed in the Colonial period and published in a Spanish document (see Cobo 1990). As this source khipu is now lost, we can only guess at how it may have been organized (e.g., perhaps as a four-part arrangement of cords, each section composed of the appropriate number of cords/ceques, each of the latter of which might have borne knots representing the appropriate number and hierarchy of huacas; see Urton 2010). We must leave the matter here, given the limitations on space, and move on to consider administration at the provincial level. Provincial Organization As we move outward (from Cuzco) and down the nested hierarchical administration, we come to the overseers of each of the eighty or so provinces that made up the empire. Each province was overseen by a Tocricoc (“he who sees/watches”), who was attended by a head khipukamayuq who was responsible for recording all information pertaining to that province (e.g., census data, tribute records). There was also a pair of officials, whom Guaman Poma designated as “Hatun hucha quipoc” and “Huchuy hucha quipoc,” who were, respectively, the major and minor accountants and treasurers in their respective provinces ([1615:363] 1980:333). When we arrive at the level of provincial organization, we confront the issue of the degree to which decimal organization obtained in terms of the administrative hierarchy and the oversight of state workers (especially the decimal-based system of corvée labor). In the Inka state, tribute was levied on subject populations in the form of a demand for labor time devoted to the performance of state projects, including such activities as

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the building and maintaining of roads, storehouses, bridges, etc.; the care and tending of lands and camelid herds belonging to the state and to the gods; and other tasks (Murra 1980). Corvée laborers were organized in decimal groupings according to the principles of dualism and five-part organization (see fig. 9.2). That is, five groupings of ten (chunca) workers in local communities made up groups of fifty workers, which were paired with another group of the same size to make a group of one hundred (pachaca) workers. As we see in figure 9.2, moving up the hierarchy, the principles of pairing (or dual organization) and five-part organization worked together repeatedly to produce ever-larger groupings of workers, up to the level of groups of ten thousand (hunu) tribute laborers. At each level, headmen (called curacas) oversaw the activities of the groups, while cord-keepers (khipukamayuqs) recorded information concerning member attendance and participation in work tasks assigned to that group by the state (Pärssinen 1992).

rie Brezine, and I have shown (Urton and Brezine 2005, 2007), we see in a set of seven Puruchuco khipus what we have termed an “accounting hierarchy” whose organization of information is strikingly like that outlined above (i.e., summation upward; division downward). The archaeological site of Puruchuco is located on the south bank of the Rimac River, about 11.5 kilometers northeast of Lima, within the present-day district of Ate ( Jiménez Borja 1973; Villacorta Ostolaza et al. 2005). Puruchuco is a roughly rectangular compound with high surrounding walls made of tapia (pounded adobe) construction. Around, and in some cases abutting, the palace of Puruchuco were several smaller constructions. The cache of khipus in question was found in an olla (utilitarian vessel with a globular body) under the floor of a small house site immediately to the north of the main structure. From its location, Carol Mackey, who first studied the Puruchuco khipus in the late 1960s, surmised that this building was the house of a khipu-

Recording Data at the Provincial Level A question that has long been of interest to scholars of Inka civilization is: how did information move between adjacent levels of the hierarchical administration? Figure 9.2 represents the basic organization of two different, reciprocal types of information that were being passed in opposite directions within the hierarchy. In this system, the expectations of higher-level officials toward lower-level ones moved, via khipu accounts, from the top of the hierarchy down. This information would have been partitive in nature; that is, assignments made to one thousand tribute payers would be broken down into two groups of five hundred, which in turn would be divided into five groups of one hundred, and so on. In the reverse direction, accountants in local communities would pass data on tasks performed upward through the hierarchical chain of officials; information at each level would represent the summation of accounts from the level immediately below. These accumulating data would eventually arrive in the hands of state accountants in Cuzco, where the highest level of accounting went on. Only in very recent times have we identified a set of khipus linked hierarchically in the kind of reciprocal relationship of summation/partition that would have been characteristic of administrative accounting in the Inka Empire, as described above. As my colleague, Car-

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Figure 9.2. Hierarchy of labor units in Inka decimal administration, with title(s) of officials responsible for units at each level (only one of the four quarters/suyus is illustrated).

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keeper who served the lord of the palace (1970:65–66). What Brezine and I have termed an “accounting hierarchy” pertains to seven of the twenty-one khipu samples found together in the olla at Puruchuco. These seven khipus are interrelated in a hierarchical arrangement of three interconnected levels, which I have designated levels I, II, and III in figure 9.3. Two of the seven khipus (UR63 and UR73) are on level I, the base; three khipus are on the second level (UR64, UR68, and #9 [see below]); and two khipus (UR67 and UR66) are on level III. Khipus on level I are divided spatially into six sections (fig. 9.4); those on level II are divided into three sections (fig. 9.5); and the two samples on level III are each composed of just one section of cords (fig. 9.6). It should be noted that sample #9 (on level II) was in the Puruchuco museum when Carol Mackey studied this collection in the late 1960s. However, when Brezine and I restudied the Puruchuco khipus archive in the summer of 2004, khipu sample #9 was missing from the collection. The Puruchuco accounting hierarchy has two principal characteristics. First, samples on the same level match, or closely match, in terms of bearing identical

or very similar numerical sequences and color patterning. We have argued that this constituted a checksand-balances aspect of the accounting hierarchy. Second, values on khipus sum upward and are subdivided downward. More specifically, the numerical values of certain groupings of strings (to be defined below) on the two khipus of level I sum to values tied onto certain groupings of strings on the three khipus of level II, and the numerical values of certain groupings of strings on the three khipus of level II sum to the values on the two khipus of level III. One can also consider this operation as moving in the opposite direction—that is, values on strings at higher levels are partitioned into smaller values that are distributed among groupings of strings on the next-lowest level. In terms of arrangements of cord color and spacing, each of the seven Puruchuco khipus is organized into different numbers of subunits. Khipus on level  I “decompose” into six subunits; those on level  II are divided into three subunits (plus what we have termed “introductory segments”); and the two khipus on level III have only one unit (plus “introductory segments”). Inside these subunits, the cords are further subdivided

Figure 9.3. Schematic diagram of three-tier accounting hierarchy composed of seven khipus found at the site of Puruchuco, Rimac Valley, Peru.

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Figure 9.4. One of the khipus (UR63) from the bottom tier (I) of the Puruchuco accounting hierarchy; cords are organized into six sections. Puruchuco Archaeological Museum. (Photo Gary Urton)

Figure 9.5. One of the khipus (UR68) from the middle tier (II) of the Puruchuco accounting hierarchy; cords are organized into three sections. Puruchuco Archaeological Museum. (Photo Gary Urton)

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Figure 9.6. The pair of khipus (UR67 and UR66) at the top tier (III) of the Puruchuco accounting hierarchy; all cords on each sample are joined into one section. Puruchuco Archaeological Museum. (Photo Gary Urton)

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(by spacing and color) into four-cord units organized by what is termed “color seriation.” Seriation has been used to refer to a sequence of colors—e.g., dark brown, medium brown, light brown, white—repeated multiple times (for comments on color seriation, see Radicati 2006:155–264; Salomon 2004:252–255). To describe more specifically the summation and/ or partitioning of information between these khipus, we can examine an example of summation upward, between levels I and II. We note first that khipu UR73 has been broken; it bears only 69 of what we surmise were originally about 111 pendant strings. Because it is more complete, we chose UR63 (see fig. 9.4) as the exemplary khipu from level I. In figure 9.7, we illustrate the relationship between UR68 (see fig. 9.5) and UR63. UR63 is organized by spacing and color seriation into six pendant string groupings, labeled a–f. The number of strings in each group is shown in brackets at the bottom of the columns. The six columns comprise: (a) three sets of (5 x 4 =) 20 strings organized into five groups of four color-seriated strings; (b) two sets of ([3 x 4] + [2 x 3] =) 18 color-seriated strings; and (c) one set of ([3 x 4] + 3 =) 15 color-seriated strings. The meandering dotted lines at the tops and bottoms of the columns of UR63 in figure 9.7 show how this sample is to be reassembled into its proper linear arrangement. The numerical values of string groupings in UR63 sum to values recorded on the middle of the three subunits of UR68. In figure 9.3, the color-seriated strings of UR63 are aligned across the six segments, and these groupings are aligned with the similarly colorseriated grouping of (5 x 4 =) 20 strings in the central subdivision (strings 34–53) of khipu UR68. Summing across the aligned strings of UR63 results in totals equal or close to those recorded on the middle (i.e., depicted) section of UR68. The values knotted into the cords of UR68 are reported on the right in figure 9.7; any number within parentheses immediately to the left of these is the actual sum of values on the strings of UR63 at that position. The parenthetical numbers represent values that should have been recorded if the relationship between UR63 and UR68 was a matter of strict addition. The presence of several close, rather than exact, matches suggests that there was some degree of flexibility or variance allowable in the accounting relationship between these two samples, or levels, of recorded information. Most likely this relates to the kinds of ambiguities, or “fuzziness,” that often characterize accounting at a local, unofficial level. As we

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will see, the calculations and recorded numbers become more exact at the top of the hierarchy, in those samples (UR66 and UR67) that would have been inspected by overseers from the outside. Continuing the summing relationship upward, we next consider khipus UR68 (level  II) and UR67 (level  III). Their relationship is illustrated in figure 9.8. In this figure, UR68 is disassembled into its three, color-seriated subdivisions (labeled A–C), which are shown aligned with the similarly color-seriated string groupings of khipu UR67. We are confronted in figure 9.8 with 20 strings in all subunits. The summations between UR68 and UR67 are more exact than those between UR63 and UR68. Setting aside the broken string in UR67, we can say that the values diverge in only two instances, and in each case the discrepancies are small: 2,904 instead of 2,908, and 161 instead of 162. The variance present in the connection between levels I and II has been considerably reduced between levels II and III. It should be noted that pendants between the dotted lines in figure 9.3 are implicated in the summation/partition relationships just outlined (and illustrated in figs. 9.7 and 9.8). The pendants on level III outside of the dotted lines in figure 9.3, and those to the left of the dotted lines that protrude from the tops of the khipu on level II, form what we call “introductory segments.” The dotted lines in figure 9.3 encompass all the pendants on level I khipus but only the middle subunit of level  II khipus. Thus, at one time, there must have been four additional level I khipus that contained the information that came to be recorded in the two additional subunits in level II khipus. One of these (lost?) pairs would have summed to the left-most subunits on level II, while the other pair would have produced sums recorded in the subunits to the right of the center section. Except for the introductory segments, all strings on level III khipus are involved in the summation relationship. In summary, it appears that the original structure of the Puruchuco accounting hierarchy contained six paired khipus on level I, whose values were summed to produce those recorded on the three subunits of the three khipus on level  II, whose subunits, in turn, were summed and recorded on the two khipus on level  III. Thus, information was being funneled or synthesized upward within this hierarchy, or, alternatively, information was subdivided and distributed downward among the three levels of khipus. I imagine that the Puruchuco accounting hierarchy represented a set of records that

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Figure 9.7. Illustration showing how, after aligning the four-cord color-seriated sets within each of the six sections of UR63, sums of aligned values are recorded on the middle cord section of khipu UR68 (correct sums are in parentheses in the right-hand column).

Figure 9.8. Illustration showing how, after aligning the four-cord color-seriated sets within each of the three sections of UR68, sums of aligned values are recorded on khipu UR67, on the top tier of accounting hierarchy (correct sums are in parentheses in the right-hand column).

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ment of three so-called figure-eight knots, represent just such identity labels. Before moving on to discuss administration at the local level, we should consider how administrative officials were trained for duties in provincial administrative centers, such as at Pachacamac or the central highland site of Huánuco Pampa. What can we say about the individuals who became khipu-keepers for the state? How were they recruited and trained? What role did they play in exercising authority and maintaining social and political control in the Inka state? The late sixteenth-century chronicler Martín de Murúa provides the following account of a school that was set up in the Inka capital of Cuzco for the training of khipu-keepers. The Inka . . . set up in his house [palace] a school, in which there presided a wise old man, who was among the most discreet among the nobility, over four teachers who were put in charge of the students for different subjects and at different times. The first teacher taught the language of the Inka . . . and upon gaining facility and the ability to speak and underFigure 9.9. Khipukamayuq shown reading khipu and possibly instructing apprentice in cord use. (Fray Martín de Murúa, Códice Murúa—Historia y genealogía de los reyes incas del Perú del Padre Mercenario Fray Martín de Murúa [Códice Galvin] [1590] [Madrid: Testimonio Compañía, 2004])

stand it, they entered under the instruction of the next [second] teacher, who taught them to worship the idols and the sacred objects [huacas]. . . . In the third year the next teacher entered and taught them, by use of khipus, the business of good government and authority, and the laws and the obedience they had to have for the Inka and his governors. . . . The fourth and last year, they learned from the other [fourth]

was consulted both inside the local community and outside, in an Inka provincial administrative center. I suggest that the khipukamayuqs of Puruchuco would have reported to the head cord-keepers in Pachacamac, a major pre-Inka and Inka religious and administrative center at the mouth of the Lurín River, just south of the city of Lima. For example, khipus on level  III could represent a set of instructions sent to the lord of Puruchuco from the provincial governor, or they might have constituted reports on local Puruchuco resources that had been prepared for dispatch to the provincial governor. In either of these scenarios, one of the requirements would have been that the khipus bear an indication of their destination or origination. If numerous khipus were coming into a central archive for storage, or were being dispersed from that archive to disparate places, it would have been helpful, if not essential, to have place identifiers encoded within each khipu. We suggest that the introductory segments on level II and III khipus, each of which contains a particular arrange-

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teacher on the cords and khipus many histories and deeds of the past. (Murúa 2001:364; my translation)

The curriculum for these young administrators-intraining aimed at engendering loyalty and adherence to the values, policies, and institutions of the Inka state (fig. 9.9). The khipu school in Cuzco would have been important as well in maintaining a high degree of conventionality across the empire in terms of the production of khipu sign units and values. Local Administrative Organization When we come to a consideration of the administration of public affairs within local settlements, the offices of greatest importance—in terms of both practices of local control and the relationship between the community and the outside—formed a hierarchy of local lords, or curacas. The curacas were the heads of the local lineages that made up what were usually multiple ay­llus

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(kin-based, landholding, ritual/ceremonial groups). The principal officials within such local hierarchies were commonly referred to in Spanish documents as cacique principal (the head of the most powerful lineage in the local area), and a close subordinate was the caci­ que segunda or segunda persona. We should note again that the principle of dual organization, which takes the form (in a social context) of a system of moieties (halves), was pervasive in communities throughout the Andes in Inka times. Local moieties, which were usually hierarchically related to each other, were commonly referred to (or classified) as hanan (“upper; the one that takes precedence”) and hurin (“lower; the subordinate group”). In most local sociopolitical organizations, the moieties were made up of multiple ayllus, each headed by a curaca. The cacique principal was often drawn from a lineage of the predominant ayllu of hanansaya, while the segunda represented the ayllus of hurinsaya. This pyramidal, hierarchical organization of local curaca officials was generally structured and interrelated in a hierarchical manner, as illustrated in figure 9.10, which is a schematic view of the organization of officials in the Chicama valley, in early colonial times. The above is a very general sketch of local organizations in communities throughout the Andes under the Inka Empire. In terms of our interest here in admin-

istration and record keeping, it is important to note that the head officials of the moieties were served by khipukamayuqs—that is, there was a pair of local cordkeepers, one for the hanansaya ayllus and another for the hurinsaya ayllus. We find suggestions in the early Spanish administrative documents to the effect that not only did this pair of moiety-based local cord-keepers maintain the records of their constituent ayllus, but each retained a copy of the information pertaining to the opposite moiety as well. As a result of this form of what I have characterized elsewhere (Urton 2005) as a system of checks and balances—in which the cordkeepers of the two halves (moieties) would each keep a record of the complete community accounting—there were, at a minimum, at least two copies of all the records pertaining to any given local population (see above, for Puruchuco, and see Urton 2008 for an example from Chachapoyas). A Local Cord Accounting: The Santa Valley Archive The question that concerns us now is: how might khipus have been organized to account for information (e.g., on census, tribute, etc.) that was so vital to the organization of local communities in Tawantinsuyu? We have only a few examples that can inform us on this question. One of

Figure 9.10. Four-tiered hierarchical organization of moiety officials in Chicama valley, early Colonial Peru (the cacique principal is at top-center; upper moiety officials are to reader’s left; lower moiety officials are to the right).

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Figure 9.11. Khipu from the Santa Valley archive, showing organization of cords into six-cord color bands. Museo Temple-Radicati, Lima. (Photo Gary Urton)

the most interesting is a khipu archive whose provenience is the Santa valley, on the north coast of Peru. The six khipus that make up the Santa valley archive were in the collection of the great Italian-Peruvian student of the Inka khipu, Carlos Radicati di Primeglio (Radicati 2006). Radicati tells us that when he acquired these six khipus, they were said—by an original source whose identity was unknown to him—to have come from the “same tomb someplace within the Santa valley” (2006:158–159). Radicati asserted that the six Santa khipus represent an archive because of the striking similarities in their cord organization and color patterning. These similarities involve most notably the arrangement of the 804 pendant cords that organize the six samples into a total of 132 six-cord color-coded, or “color-banded,” sets. That is, one regularly encounters on the Santa valley khipus a group of six cords of one color followed by another six cords of a different color, then another six of a color different from the second group, and so on (fig. 9.11). The 132 six-cord sets are

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distributed over the six khipus of the Santa archive in the following numbers: 15, 34, 10, 9, 16, and 48. The interesting thing about this set of khipus is that we have ethnohistorical documents from the Santa valley from the Colonial period that point to a remarkable (apparent) coincidence between the numbers of khipus and cord sets in the Santa khipu archive and demographic information pertaining to a set of six local ayllus of people who occupied the lower-middle Santa valley in the same period. The documents in question derive from a revisita (a Colonial era census recount) made among the “Recuayes” Indians, who were said to live along the lower-middle Santa valley, near the town of Corongo, in the seventeenth century. The documents are published in the Padrón de indios tributarios recuayes: Conchucos, 1670 (Zevallos Quiñones 1991). This “registry” (padrón) contains a recount of tributa­ rios (tribute-payers), which was carried out among the Indians of the colonial reducción (resettlement of indigenous populations to a small number of new towns) of

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Table 9.1. The Coincidence between Khipus and Colonial Pachacas/Ayllus, Santa River Valley, Peru Santa Valley Khipus

Pachacas/Ayllus

Numbers of six-cord sets

Numbers of tributaries

15

19 (Namús)

34

23 (Corongo)

10

9 (Cuyuchin)

9

7 (Cusca)

16

21 (Guauyan)

48

32 (Ucore)

Total: 132

111 (out of 132)

San Pedro de Corongo, located at the bend of the Santa River. Such recounts were undertaken when the population of a community had decreased to the point that the existing tribute obligation (levied on a larger population) represented an extreme hardship on the reduced populace. It is important to point out that the historical document in question states that local records were still being retained on khipus. This is not, in fact, an unusual circumstance, as we have rich documentation for the continued use of khipus into the Colonial period (Brokaw 2010; Urton 2002) and even down to the present day (Salomon 2004). This registry from 1670 lists 132 tributarios in Corongo at the time of the recount; 111 of the natives are identified by name (the unrecorded tributaries were said to have been ausentes [absent] at the time of the recount). The 111 named tributaries in the census are named as members of six pachacas (hundreds); the term pachaca is often used in colonial sources as a general synonym for ayllu (González Holguín 1952). The numbers of tributaries assigned to the six pachacas/ayl­ lus are as follows: Namús, 19; Corongo, 23; Cuyuchin, 9; Cusca, 7; Guauyan, 21; Ucore, 32. As we saw above, the six khipus in Radicati’s Santa valley khipu archive were organized into 132 six-cord sets. Hypothesized coincidences between the six khipus and the tributaries of the six colonial pachacas/ayllus of the Santa valley are shown in table 9.1. I hypothesize that the six Santa valley khipus pertain to records of an arrangement similar to the six pacha­ cas/ayllus of the Corongo Indians in the seventeenth century, and that the 132 six-cord groups on the khipus

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represent the cord formatting for recording data similar to the census data reported for the 132 tributarios of Corongo in 1670. According to this interpretation, each of the six khipus would have represented a pachaca/ayllu registry. The six-cord groups that comprise the khipus could have represented different classes of data (e.g., age, gender, etc.) pertaining to the people who made up one tributary household within a given pachaca/ayllu. An intriguing question that arises is: is the Santa khipu archive the actual registry of information pertaining to the six pachacas/ayllus that occupied the area around Corongo in the seventeenth century? I cannot (to date) identify features of these khipu samples that would allow me to hazard a kind of “translation” linking these six khipus to Corongo ayllu identities. Nonetheless, the Santa valley khipu archive provides an important case study of the possible structural and organizational features that likely characterized ayllu records (for census, tributary, etc., purposes) as they would have been maintained in communities throughout the Andes in pre-conquest times. It is such local records that would have been aggregated among a number of communities within a given region and then forwarded together to a provincial accounting center—and from there on to Cuzco. Conclusions and Reflections We began this chapter with a quotation from the chronicle of Cieza de León, in which he commented on the extraordinary efficiency and accuracy of the cord-­ keeping record system of the Inka khipu. We asked at that point whether we could, in studying extant samples in different museum collections, find evidence that would confirm Cieza’s observations on the accuracy and efficiency of Inka cord-keeping. Beyond simply confirming complexity, however, there lies before us the important question of precisely how such complex recordings as are claimed for them could have been accomplished by the khipukamayuqs. In this chapter, we have looked at examples of the recording of information at different levels in the Inka hierarchical administrative structure. I believe that from the examples discussed herein, we can have confidence that, indeed, the khipu was a most efficient and accurate system of record keeping. But beyond confirming the “complexity” of record keeping in the Inka Empire, we must ask in the end

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about the broader implications that such close study of the khipus affords us, particularly in terms of the insights into Inka cultural and intellectual history that might be attained. Until recent times, students of the social sciences viewed the study of administrative procedures and accounting as among the most uncreative—though admittedly essential—subjects one might confront in the study of any given society, ancient or modern. It is as though in dealing with such matters, one is consigned to the dullest side of the “dismal science”—economics! However, since the path-breaking work of Michel Foucault, particularly his writings concerning what he termed “governmentality” in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Europe, there has been a growing recognition that state systems of power and authority are, in fact, constituted in the procedural regimes and discursive practices of administration and accounting. Perhaps the key insight in Foucault’s approach is that accounting and administration are the institutional frameworks of disciplinary forms of power—systems in which social life is heavily suffused by standardized procedures (e.g., census taking and reporting), routines, discursive norms (speaking in standardized, formulaic ways about this or that), all of which constitute the on-the-ground realities of regimes of surveillance and control. As Stewart has argued, Foucault recognized three primary components of accounting discipline and surveillance: “hierarchical observation (continuous inspection and surveillance); normalizing judgment (a corrective rather than essentially retributive type penalty); and examination (a combination of observation and correction)” (Stewart 1992:62). Having provided in this chapter an overview of the intense, centralized program of education and training that khipu-keepers were subjected to as well as the hierarchical organization of the administrative system within which the accountants operated, we can begin to understand the vital role of accounting in the exercise of power in the Inka state. In carrying their knotted-cord records into the countryside and unfurling these elaborate constructions in village plazas, and then recounting to the assembled populace the categories, classes, and numbers that constituted that community, the khipukamayuq and his knotted-cord record—local proxies for the Inka— became the sources of the identity and legitimacy of the assembled group of people in the eyes of the state. However we finally come to understand and characterize the specific procedures and the processes (e.g.,

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from conquest to alliance) of the extension of the power and influence of Cuzco throughout the central Andes, it is increasingly clear that we must recognize the cordkeepers as central agents in the realization of that work, on the ground, at the local and provincial levels. It is to be hoped that future studies by archaeologists and ethnohistorians will shed greater light on the technologies, practices, and systems of knowledge that both sustained and were made possible by the extraordinary system of three-dimensional, cord-based record keeping of the Inka khipu. Acknowledgments Thanks to Carrie J. Brezine for reading and commenting on an earlier version of this paper. I am also grateful to Izumi Shimada, not only for reading, commenting on, and editing the text, but also for urging me explicitly to reflect on the broader significance of administrative practices for Inka state expansion and consolidation. However, I alone am responsible for the contents of this article and for any mistakes, errors, lapses of judgment, etc., that remain. Thanks to Luis Felipe Villacorta O. for his help in our research at the site museum of Puruchuco, and to Dr. Manuel Burga for providing us the opportunity to study the Radicati khipu collection in the Museo Temple-Radicati, Lima. Notes

The epigraph was translated from the following: “En cada cabeza de provincia había contadores a quien llamaban qui­ poscamayos, y por estos nudos tenían la cuenta y razón de lo que habían de tributar los questaban en aquel distrito, desde la plata, oro, ropa y ganado, hasta la leña y las otras cosas más menudas, y por los mismos quipos se daba a cabo de un año, o de diez o de veinte, razón a quien tenía comisión de tomar la cuenta, tan bien que un par de alpargatas no se podían esconder” (Cieza de León [1551] 1967:36). 1. For additional descriptions, diagrams, and photos detailing khipu construction features, see the website for the Khipu Database project: http://khipukamayuq.fas.harvard.edu/. 2. This work was supported by research grants provided by the National Science Foundation (2002–2003: BCS#0228038; 2003–2004: BCS#0408324; and 2006–2007: BCS#0609719). I am deeply grateful for the long-term support of the Khipu Database project by the NSF. I also gratefully acknowledge the support of Carrie J. Brezine, who served as database manager for the KDB from 2002 until 2007.

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(1551) 1967  El señorio de los Incas. Lima: IEP.

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“A New Twist in an Old Yarn: Variation in Knot Directionality in the Inka Khipus.” Baessler-Archiv 42:271–305. 2002 “Recording Signs in Narrative-Accounting Khipu.” In Narrative Threads: Accounting and Recounting in Andean Khipu, ed. Jeffrey Quilter and Gary Urton, 171–196. Austin: University of Texas Press. 2003 Signs of the Inka Khipu: Binary Coding in the Andean Knotted-String Records. Austin: University of Texas Press. 2005 “Khipu Archives: Duplicate Accounts and Identity Labels in the Inka Knotted String Records.” Latin American Antiquity 16:147–167. 2008 The Khipus of Laguna de los Cóndores/Los Khipus de la Laguna de los Cóndores. Lima: Forma e Imágen. 2010 “La administración del estado inca por medio de los quipus.” In Señores de los imperios del Sol, ed. Krzysztof Makowski, 93–109. Lima: Banco de Credito. Urton, Gary, and Carrie J. Brezine

(1590) 2001  Historia general del Perú. Ed. Manuel Ballesteros Gaibrois. Crónicas de América. Madrid: Dastin.

“Khipu Accounting in Ancient Peru.” Science 309:1065–1067. 2007 “Information Control in the Palace of Puruchuco: An Accounting Hierarchy in a Khipu Archive from Coastal Peru.” In Variations in the Expression of Inka Power, ed. R. Burger, C. Morris, and M. Mar, 357–384. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks. 2011 “Khipu Typologies.” In Their Way of Writing: Scripts, Signs, and Pictographies in Pre-Columbian America, ed. E. H. Boone and G. Urton, 319–352. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks.

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Zuidema, R. Tom

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The Ceque System of Cuzco: The Social Organization of the Capital of the Inca. Leiden: Brill. “Bureaucracy and Systematic Knowledge in Andean Civilization.” In The Inca and Aztec States, 1400–1800: Anthropology and History, ed. G. A. Collier, R. I. Rosaldo, and J. D. Wirth, 419–458. New York: Academic.

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C H A P T E R 10

Inka Art Thomas B. F. Cummins

At first glance, Inka art seems to elude definition, to present enigmas confounding understanding. How are we to look at, appreciate, and understand such a magnificent object as the Dumbarton Oaks Inka tunic (uncu) (fig. 10.1), or the solid but unadorned walls of the most holy Inka building, the Coricancha, the Temple of the Sun in Cuzco (fig. 10.2)? There is little to grasp at first sight other than their exquisite workmanship and design. Aside from the few Inka stone, gold, and silver figurines that have survived, we can recognize almost nothing about these works as referring to anything we know. Realism in the sense of mimesis or copying—the attempt to create in pictorial or sculptural forms images that correspond by likeness to things in nature—is not an overriding principle of Inka creative production or imagination. The Inka instead produced a sophisticated and coherent body of works in architecture, ceramics, metal, and textiles that gave visual expression and physical presence to their religious, political, historical, and social concepts, as we will explore in this essay. By and large, the images and objects the Inka created were based on ordered and systematic abstract geometric forms. Even the figural forms in ceramic or metal and the few stone sculptures can be reduced to highly geometrically schematized forms. For example, stone offertory bowls (conopa) in the shape of a llama (fig. 10.3) were carved using straight lines and right angles. Many boulders in the countryside around Cuzco and at ceremonial sites have been carved into geometric shapes (fig. 10.4). Ceramics occasionally bear slip-painted figures of animals, fish, insects, and humans.1 The most realistic and therefore identifiable in terms of species are insects (bottlenose flies, butterflies, spiders), birds, and fish, especially suche, or catfish, from Lake Titicaca. None-

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theless they maintain a rather schematic linear form, similar to the formation of the conopa in the shape of a llama. Most often, animals are seen from an aerial or bird’s-eye perspective so that one is looking down on them and thus sees the most of the important features. Birds and camelids are depicted standing, in profile, and most often in repeated sequence. On some plates, the figures are arranged within a dynamic composition. On one shallow plate, for example, five suche fish appear to swim near the outer rim in alternating curved movement while pairs of black flies are depicted between the head and tail of each fish (fig. 10.5). In the center, framed by two black lines that suggest an inner circumference or border, a composition of flies and snails creates an alternative dynamism that moves inward and outward rather than around the plate as the outer figures do. The individual four snails are modeled in low relief and are slip-painted brown. They are paired and placed horizontally opposite each other so as to form a quadripartite division. Between them are pairs of black flies that face each other. To offset the inherent static quality of the quadripartite composition, the flies are not symmetrical to each other. Rather, each pair differs slightly in terms of the placement of each fly respective to the other, as if they are in movement. The human figure, mostly female, is the most schematic and the least dynamic of all. The head is usually an inverted triangle with eyes, nose, and mouth indicated by simple geometric shapes. The torso is a tubular form representing the dress (acusa) and shawl (lliqlla). The arms and legs are schematically rendered and appear as simple, thin, single lines, drawn much like a stick figure (fig. 10.6). The figure stands rigidly erect with the feet, splayed in either direction, placed upon a narrowly drawn ground line. Usually the figure is repeated sev-

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Figure 10.3. Stone conopa (stone receptacle for offering). Inka Museum, National University of Cuzco. (Photo courtesy Yutaka Yoshii)

Figure 10.1. Uncu (male tunic) with overall tocapu designs, ca. 1450–1540 c.e. PreColumbian Collection, PC b.518 Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington DC.

Figure 10.2. Exterior wall of the Coricancha (Temple of the Sun), ca. 1500 c.e. Cuzco. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

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Figure 10.5. One of a pair of Inka shallow dishes with suche fish, flies, and snails. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

Figure 10.4. Intihuatana, sun stone/huaca, ca. 1500 c.e. Machu Picchu. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

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INKA ART  167

Figure 10.6. One of a pair of ceramic jars with five slip-painted female standing figures. Cuzco, Museo del Inka.

Figure 10.7. Terraced walls with figures of llamas, Choquequirao. (Photo Andrew Hamilton)

eral times, and the repeated pattern gives a sense that figures are performing some ritual gesture or dance as they hold aloft either flowers or birds. What is significant in the depiction of the human as well as the animal figures is that the composition is the determining element of visual emphasis. That is, the disposition of the figures—rather than the pictorial elements comprising them (features, anatomy, color, shading, etc.)—is what is important. No sense of narrative is attempted; no placement within a scene of action is implied. Rather it is the relationship of the parts to the whole that gives coherence to the overall image. Hence, while representational figures do occur, they are certainly not a necessary condition for, nor a primary interest of, Inka ceramic surface painting/drawing. It is the design composition that is critical; drawn or painted on a surface, be it figural or abstract, it is designated in Quechua by the term quilca (González Holguín 1989:301, 513; Santo Tomás 1951:357).2 There are also a few monumental or architectural stone images, such as at Huánuco Pampa, where a profile pair of heraldic, horizontal, bilaterally symmetri-

cal felines (pumas) is carved below the outer lintel of a double-­jamb entrance that leads into the vast plaza. Around Cuzco, pumas and amaru (large snakes) are carved in low relief at the entrances of caves. As at Huánuco Pampa, these figures are schematically depicted, with a strong outline basically being the defining characteristic. At Choquequirao, larger-than-life-size, solid figural images of a llama are rendered in the stone retaining/terrace walls. The figures are delineated by the contrast between the dark stone of most of the terrace wall and the white stone of the llama’s body (fig. 10.7).3 To someone looking from a distance, there seems to be a figure-ground relationship in which the terrace wall is the ground upon which the llama has been created, as if painted. This is not in fact the case, as the white stone performs the same structural function as the dark stone. It is merely through the contrast of light and dark/white and black of the wall’s stonework that the figures emerge. That is, the image is not additional or supplementary. It is an intimate part of the construction process. Moreover, the llamas appear to ascend

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Figure 10.8. Detail of terrace wall at Choquequirao with llama figure in white stone. (Photo Andrew Hamilton)

Figure 10.9. Interior trapezoidal wall niches, ca. 1500 c.e. Pisac. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

Figure 10.10. Temple of the Three Windows, ca. 1500 c.e. Machu Picchu. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

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INKA ART  169

while traversing the terraces in an orderly sequential fashion. This appearance of movement up the terraces is achieved by the sequential placement of each figure at different intervals, beginning at the bottom right and moving left across the horizontal planes of the terrace walls. This movement can be fully appreciated only from a distance. Up close, the figures are very clearly visible (fig. 10.8), but just as remarkable is how the stones contrast in both shape and size—we might think of it as a giant jigsaw puzzle in which the greatest number of pieces are placed vertically, as if they too are animated and defy logic and gravity. Such figural examples are extremely rare, however. Most two-dimensional images and three-dimensional sculptures, as mentioned above, are conceived within a visual idiom of pure geometry that emphasizes design and the relationship of parts to a whole. For example, the individual abstract geometric images (tocapu) on the Dumbarton Oaks tunic (see chapter 11, by Phipps) are organized on a grid that relates each to the whole design (see fig. 10.1). The stones in Inka walls such as at the Coricancha (see fig. 10.2) were fitted together precisely so as to be able to show the relationship between one stone and the other; the slopes of rugged landscape were transformed into visible hemispheres that extended into the air; and cities and ritual centers were laid out in systematic order (see chapter 12, by Nair and Protzen). Ritual objects were created in matched pairs, thereby manifesting physically and visually the underlying binary set of relationships that are critical to Andean expression. For example, a set of binary relationships is one of the basic tools for encoding information in the Inka notational object, the khipu (see chapter 9, by Urton). That is, the fibers are twisted together in one of two directions just as the knots are tied to either the right or the left. The arrangement of the knots along the string manifested—through their proximal relationship to each other—a decimal ordering by which information could be encoded and extracted.

exhibited an intended uniformity. Not only does one immediately recognize at first glance almost all Inka planning and stonework—whether these structures appear in Chile, Peru, or Ecuador—but there are also signature architectural elements that clearly reinforce this impression. The most notable feature is again a geometric form, the trapezoid, which is used to mark the penetration of the solid stone walls. Trapezoidal forms are the only ones used for both interior and exterior niches as well as windows. One can see magnificent examples of these niches and windows in the interior walls of the Coricancha, at Pisac (fig. 10.9), and at Machu Picchu (fig. 10.10), as well as on the coast at Pachacamac and Tambo Colorado, in the central highlands at Huánuco Pampa, and far to the north at Hacienda San Agustín, a very late royal compound built by Huayna Capac at the foot of the great Ecuadorian volcano, Cotopaxi (see chapter 18, by Bray). The same larger trapezoidal form is also used for almost all Inka doorways (fig. 10.11).

Inka Style Forms and images of geometric and numeric order constitute the underlying framework of how the Inka visually represented themselves; such units are easily identifiable in the layout of centers, the architectural plans of Inka buildings, and the two-dimensional designs of textiles and vessels. Inka images and objects

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Figure 10.11. Double-jamb trapezoidal interior doorway, Coricancha, ca. 1500 c.e. Cuzco. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

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Whether the trapezoid has any structural utility for the stability of buildings in a land of earthquakes is debatable. However, we can suggest that in and of itself this geometric form is visually important to the Inka, because when the Inka wished to mark an especially important entrance, such as at the Coricancha or the entry leading into the sacred centers of Machu Picchu, Huánuco Pampa, or Mallkullacta (the site built to look onto the mythic origin place of the Inka Pacaritambo), they built a double trapezoidal door jamb.4 There is no structural value here; rather, the recursive geometric form calls attention visually to, and manifests physically, the liminal, or transitional, place where one passes from the quality of one space to that of another. One can call this precise and uniform style an imperial art style, in the same sense that we recognize Roman art as an imperial style when it is viewed against the local and varied styles of its subjects.5 Tawantinsuyu, the Inka Empire, was and still is often compared to the Roman Empire, although their artistic forms are very different.6 For example, whereas Roman armor and imperial standards were decorated with mythological and historical figures, the Inka army was arrayed in tunics of a geometric/abstract red, white, and black checkerboard design (fig. 10.12). As some of the very first Spanish chroniclers write (Xérez 1534), the image of these thousands of men dressed as one—and armed with slings—gave the impression of a single, coordinated, and powerful whole led by the Sapa Inka (“Unique Inka,” the unquestioned paramount ruler). As objects for veneration, these Inka military tunics were no less important than Roman armor, and they were also carefully preserved in communities (some even until today [Arze and Medinaceli 1991]). They were brought out for rituals in which songs were sung that recounted historical events. As we shall see, these precious Inka textiles were present at such ceremonies not merely because they were considered heirlooms but because they were regarded as witnesses giving testimony to past deeds; their appearance on these occasions made the songs truthful, as first-person narrative accounts.7 The Inka engendered a kind of “Pax Inkaica” not unlike the Pax Romana of antiquity. That is, the Inka promised to those who entered their domain a peaceful and ordered world, one that suppressed local rivalries and disputes. And this promise, as we shall see, involved

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more than just creating a peaceful environment or granting access to foodstuffs and other resources stored throughout Tawantinsuyu for distribution when there were local scarcities caused by floods, droughts, or war. The Inka were, of course, able to do this because they harnessed the great labor force of the Andes, including a vast body of artistic talent (see chapter 7, by D’Altroy), including weavers, wood carvers, stonemasons, ceramicists, and many other artisans. Naturally there existed regional styles, local inflections of what one might call “pure” Inka style; however, what is significant is that craftspeople from all over the Andes were directly influenced, in one way or another, by what they saw. And in many cases they reproduced it precisely. Weaving may be the most valued medium of Andean expression, but metalsmiths and gold and silver objects receive the overwhelming number of references to craftsmen and media in the chronicles. This difference probably arises from the Spanish interest in gold and silver. Spanish authors mention that Andean goldsmiths fashioned a variety of objects for the Inka, including the small gold and silver statues that were buried with the sacrificed children of the capacocha (highly sacred ritual offerings) rituals; today such burials provide us with the majority of extant Inka objects of precious metal (see fig. 11.6). These are rather simple figurines, either cast or hammered, but they give us an idea of the kinds of life-size images that were made and placed in the legendary garden of the Coricancha. It is said that all species of animals, plants, and man were represented there. Almost all these images and objects were melted down for their metal content, either in Peru or soon after they reached Spain (Lothrop 1938). Listed among these figural sculptures were also large vessels of gold and silver (urpus, or arybaloid vessels for carrying and serving corn beer) that amazed the conquistadores when Atahualpa’s ransom was collected. Intimately related to these vessels were the cups for drinking the beer, which were called aquilla. Their importance for the Inka is underscored by the fact that the metalsmiths in Cuzco who forged the legendary life-size gold and silver garden in the Coricancha are described in general as “artisans who were in Cusco serving to make cups of gold and silver” (Santillán 1950:107). The very gold and silver taken from the mines was said to have been dedicated to making these cups: “Where the [Sapa] Inka had mines he ordered as he wished that they mine the gold and silver for his

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Figure 10.12. Military uncu (male tunic) with checkerboard design. Ica Regional Museum, Peru. (Photo courtesy Yutaka Yoshii)

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cups and other things of his set of plates” (Cobo [1653: bk. 12, chap. 26] 1964:119). The importance of making these vessels for the Inka is underscored by a mention of the metalsmiths working on the south coast, where the Sapa Inka commanded . . . that the Indians who were metal smiths were to be relieved from giving tribute and they did not have to do anything else but make the vessels for his service or for whom he commanded. (Castro and Morejón [1558] 1936:135)

Most chroniclers state that the Sapa Inka had dominion over all gold and silver, but whether or not the above statement is accurate, what becomes clear is that these vessels had high value as figural sculpture within the Inka aesthetic. And we shall see that these vessels had a very important place in religious ritual and social interchange, so we should not think of them as merely mundane utilitarian objects (Cummins 2002). Throughout Tawantinsuyu, artists and craftsmen were put to work making other beautiful things, be these gold and silver vessels or figurines, fine cloth, high-quality ceramics, or exquisite masonry buildings. The production and distribution of these things were a sign of the political and social order that the Pax Inkaica provided. The massive, finely built walls so carefully pieced together seem almost to be an embodied form of the vast labor that this system could command. However, it would be very wrong to view Inka artistic production only according to the willful material terms of a political state. The order the Inka offered was also a metaphysical one, and not at all cynical. This was embodied in Inka objects, images, architecture, and rituals. The objects produced were given as gifts to the deities and were exchanged by individuals to consecrate favorable relations in a binding form. As we shall see, relationships and the expression of them constitute an overriding concern in Inka art and architecture, in part because these forms also helped to structure how each individual conducted himself or herself as an integrated part of a social and metaphysical existence. Space, Objects, and Ritual No Andean lived alone. All dwelled in a conceptual world of binaries, straight lines, squares, rectangles, and circles that were repeated, combined, and nested within themselves (think only of Moray, discussed in chapter

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8, by Earls and Cervantes), and every runa (person) enacted them both in daily practice and in ritual performance. These conceptual ideals have a long history in the Andes; however, the Inka used them to create a visual culture that distinguished them as a unified whole in relation to local expression. Nevertheless, all that they built and created was understandable within Andean aesthetic and ethical codes. Their artforms are the expression of a worldview in which the notion of beauty is tremendously complex and ambiguous in nature, as we shall see. The relationship between organizational ideal, imperial culture, and artistic expression can be first glimpsed in the very term that names the vast expanse of the Inka Empire, Tawantinsuyu. It can be translated as meaning “four (tawa) intimately related (ntin) parts (suyu),” and indeed the empire was divided and administered in four parts: Antisuyu, Collasuyu, Chinchaysuyu, and Cuntisuyu. Modern maps tend to try to show this quadripartite form as an administrative, ethnic, and economic division that was territorially distributed in a markedly unequal way (for example, see fig. 15.1). However, conceptually these four suyu were distributed equally in a sacred spatial relationship to the center, which was Cuzco. We have no known Inka representation of Tawantinsuyu that we can identify; however, the conceptual organization of Tawantinsuyu finds a visual correspondence with the quadripartion of a square or rectangle, which is a common design element of the Inka tocapu (see fig. 10.1). An illustration in Martín de Murúa’s 1590/1613 manuscript (fig. 10.13), painted by the Andean artist and author Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, is the only known Colonial pictorial representation of Tawantinsuyu, and it suggests how this sacred and geographic entity was spatially conceived by an Andean artist and how it best could be represented within both Andean and Western conventions.8 Guaman Poma’s watercolor illustration is nothing like a modern map showing how archaeologists imagine and represent Tawantinsuyu (e.g., see chapter 15, by Pärssinen), which would entail a much more “rational” or “empirical” mapping of the territory based on Spanish chronicles. Rather, his illustration is an image of what Tawantinsuyu was conceived as within the cognitive experience and imagination of an Andean. The watercolor has a quadripartite composition similar to what is seen in certain tocapus, but here, instead of pure geometric forms, there are five stylized cities distributed within a stylized European landscape

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experience thus gave way to the mental constructs of a rigidly ordered world. It is important to emphasize that Inka expression is imbued with the sacred, a sacrality that trumps experiential action. The act of making fine objects, as we shall see, was most emphatically as much a sacred act as it was a craft performance. Materials and Making: Ritual Embodiment of the Inka Aesthetic

Figure 10.13. Schematic representation of Cuzco and the four suyu. Color wash by Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, from Martín de Murúa, Historia del origen y genealogía real de los reyes inkas del Piru (1590), fol. 82v.

(see Cummins 2011). The center is the imperial city of Cuzco, and the four cities representing the four suyu, each identified by a written name, are placed equidistant from it. This Colonial-era illustration offers a pictorial image of an ordered empire and universe, one that for the Inka could best be expressed by geometric composition (Cummins 2007, 2011). In other words, amid the physical world of an extremely rugged landscape, an Andean could envision a completely ordered geometrical universe. One could imagine traveling across it in a straight line and returning to one’s place of origin after participating in a ritual in Cuzco’s plaza. One could perform rituals at the different huacas (sacred entities or places) distributed along the imagined ceques (Quechua term for “line” or “ray”; see chapter 8, by Earls and Cervantes, for details), lines radiating out from the Coricancha, with the understanding that one traveled in straight paths even as one traversed the countryside in a decidedly meandering fashion. Phenomenological

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How did the material make the sacred of the Inka manifest? Let us return first to the plaza of Cuzco, where all major Inka rituals were initiated and where the Inka feasted every day in honor of the sun, offering a toast to their deity and then to each other. The plaza where the Inka feasted was in some early period physically and materially transformed into a pure and holy space through the process of digging up the earth that was there and then refilling the excavated area with fine white sand. There is no extant archaeological evidence for this transformation, because in 1558 Polo de Ondegardo, governor of the city of Cuzco, ordered that the sand that filled the plaza mayor (main plaza) be removed and used in the foundations of the new cathedral (Cummins 1996). We can be sure that what Polo de Ondegardo tells us here is accurate, as something similar has been archaeologically attested to at the venerable pan-Andean religious center of Pachacamac, on the coast just south of Lima. There, the extensive Pilgrims’ Plaza at the base of the Sun Temple—built as a late addition by the Inka—was also filled with fine white sand (Shimada et al. 2005).9 The plaza served as a sacred space for ritual celebrations in all the centers the Inka built throughout Tawan­ tinsuyu; some of these were extremely capacious, as at Huánuco Pampa (see chapter 16, by Hayashida and Guzmán, on the plaza at coastal Inka centers). The plaza in Cuzco, however, was the most important, and it continued to be revered into the early Colonial period, as Ondegardo tells us: “The Indians would have paid any price that we could have asked if we had left the plaza as it were, but I deemed it better that the sand go to the building of the cathedral, . . . the principal reason of which was that it removed the great reverence that they held for the plaza” (Polo de Ondegardo [1571] 1990:98). He goes on to tell us that the fine white sand in the plaza was brought from the Pacific coast

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Figure 10.14. Plaza of the city of Cuzco. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

by order of the Inka and that gold and silver statues of men, women, and animals had been buried in the sand, which were found when the sand was removed. Not only was the transportation of the sand by the Inka an incredibly labor-intensive act, a manifestation of political will and power, but the material itself was sacred and its placement was meant to transform and sanctify the plaza. The place whence it came, the Pacific, was called Mamacocha, or “mother body of water,” and she was worshiped just as the mountains, the sun, and the moon were. The sand therefore was not used simply to convert the original swampy area of the plaza into an even and visually purified surface, but rather it made the plaza itself become a more sacred space, a kind of cocha,10 in which the waters of the ocean and Lake Titicaca were mingled when poured into the sand during different rituals (Zuidema 1982; Sherbondy 1992). Moreover, the earth that was originally in the plaza was removed and taken to Inka sites throughout the empire, thereby sanctifying/replicating each as another Cuzco,

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something to which Guaman Poma alludes when he calls different Inka centers “another Cuzco.”11 The white sand not only made the plaza a more beautiful place, but imbued the site with the telluric materiality of the sacred. The plaza was a conceptual as well as a material space. In fact, many of the design elements that one sees in Andean textiles and ceramic decoration are also present in the plaza in terms of how it was conceptually divided. Here the social and political divisions of Tawantinsuyu were spatially realized and used to organize the Inka rituals that took place there. In other words, the plaza as a phenomenon was even more than a cocha. Material and space were united in a profound way so that this architectural form marked the physical and metaphorical center of Tawantinsuyu (fig. 10.14). The plaza, understood as uniting the physical and the ideal, can be imagined therefore as the ideal template for the binary and quadripartite divisions that organize many Inka forms, such as tocapu images, archi-

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Figure 10.15. Quero with rectangular cut design, excavated at Huánuco Pampa. (Photo courtesy Craig Morris)

tectural structures (see chapter 12, by Nair and Protzen), and almost everything else. This is in part because there is a recursive component to all Inka imagery and architecture, as mentioned above regarding Inka trapezoidal doorways. Another example of the recursive is seen in a very common geometric design used on Inka gold and silver (aquillas), wooden (queros), and ceramic drinking vessels. These objects were used in rituals conducted in plazas built throughout Tawantinsuyu, and the design on them comprises a set of nested or concentric rectangular forms that are either expanding or contracting, depending how one interprets the design (fig. 10.15).12 This recursiveness does not occur only within a particular image (quero) or architectural form (doorway). It is evident across media, including ritual space, in conceptual ways, as we can see if we seek out the conventions embedded in Cuzco’s plaza. We see first that the space was physically divided into two parts: one called Haucaypata and the other Cusipata (fig. 10.16). In all

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ritual celebrations, the Inka of Cuzco occupied Haucaypata, and all non-Inka, many of whom came from all over the empire and lived in the areas surrounding the sacred city, occupied Cusipata. The two plazas were physically separated by the Huatanay River, which defined the western border of the sacred center of Cuzco. The other river, the Tullumayo, defined the other, eastern, border of the city. The two rivers, each having its source above and behind Sacsayhuaman, come out from either side of the hill where the magnificent temple/fortress was built (fig. 10.17). Where the rivers joined together formed the southern limit of the sacred center of the city (puma chupan) as well as a ritual site of joyful and competitive synthesis, or tinku. The plaza also marked the social division of the Inka city, which was divided into two parts, Hanan Cuzco and Hurin Cuzco, or upper and lower Cuzco (see chapters 8 and 14, by Earls and Cervantes, and Kaulicke, respectively). Here the division was marked not by any physical feature, such as a river, but rather by where one lived in the city itself, above or below an imagined line running through the center of the plaza. This division therefore ran perpendicular to the sociopolitical division marked by the river dividing the plazas. More important, this second division demonstrated how the Inka residents (Hanan and Hurin) were to arrange themselves in the plaza during daily ritual feasting and all other major religious celebrations. Such ceremonies were organized around the seating of the mummies of the Sapa Inkas of each of the ten royal panacas, or families. Five mummies were of the Inka clans from Hanan, or upper, Cuzco, and the other five were from Hurin, or lower, Cuzco. They sat facing each other in two rows, with the Hanan row in the upper part of the city, facing south, and the Hurin facing them, toward the north. The reigning Sapa Inka sat in a wooden seat (tiana) covered with gold at the head of the two rows. Finally, the plaza was understood to be where the separation of Tawantinsuyu into four parts originated. Again, there was nothing that marked this division other than the roads that went out from the city, yet everyone was aware of the partition. In other words, one might look today at the space of the plaza as a void, but in reality it embodied the various social, cultural, and political divisions by which Tawantinsuyu was organized geometrically.13 While the divisions were not laid out in the plaza in any obvious physical form other than the river running through it, they were enacted by those who came

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Figure 10.16. Schematic drawing of the twin plazas of Cuzco, separated by the Saphi/Huatanay river. 1 = Huaycapata and 2 = Cusipata. (Drawing by Kyle Huffman after G. Gasparini and L. Margolies, Inka Architecture [1980])

Figure 10.17. Temple/fortress of Sacsayhuaman. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

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Figure 10.18. Sapa Inka drinking to the Sun with a pair of golden aquillas. Color wash by Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, from Martín de Murúa, Historia del origen y genealogía real de los reyes inkas del Piru (1590), fol. 56v.

Figure 10.19. Pair of small golden aquillas. (Photo courtesy Craig Morris)

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to celebrate in this space. As already mentioned, the arrangement of the mummies of the past Inka rulers determined the division between Hanan and Hurin that organized the entire city and all other Inka centers. Furthermore, the obligatory ritual exchange of maize beer (aqha; also commonly called chicha)—by a series of toasts in matched cups that each participant brought to the feast—acknowledged all of these divisions and their unification (see Cummins 2002). The sacred union of the plaza was recognized by the first toast, which was exchanged between the Sapa Inka and his divine father, the Sun (Inti), a toast depicted by Guaman Poma in Martín de Murúa’s manuscript (fig. 10.18) and in his own Nueva corónica y buen gobierno (1615). The Sapa Inka next toasted with his kinsmen, who raised one vessel and drank from the other. The mummies are said to have drunk with each other through their proxies, a relative who acted as their voice. These toasts brought the two parts of Cuzco (Hanan and Hurin) together in amicable fashion, but they also acknowledged their division by always using matched cups, aquillas (either of gold or silver) (fig. 10.19) and queros (wooden cups). The exchange of cups expressed the underlying binaries of Andean social relations. Thus, someone of higher rank offered a drink in the right hand, and it was received by the inferior in the left; they then drank to each other. The toast was reciprocated in the second pair of queros. Equals offered and received the vessel in the right hand, and an inferior offered a reciprocal toast in the left hand that was received by the superior in the right hand. These exchanges embody many of the principles and paradigms that underlie Inka artistic material and design production; they repeat and alter, and in doing so they signify very powerful concepts about religious, social, and political relationships. Just as important, the paired vessels and their use were the subject of widespread Andean understanding and acceptance, both geographically and historically. An early chronicler, who married into the Inka royal family of Atahualpa, tells us that this system of reciprocal toasting with a pair of vessels was used throughout Peru to establish and maintain amicable relations (Betanzos [1551] 1987:72– 73). Such relations were not just personal, taking place between local neighbors, but also occurred between differing nations and ethnic groups. The exchange of toasts was also made between Andeans and their deities, as we saw in Guaman Poma’s drawing of the Sapa Inka’s toast exchange with the Sun (see fig. 10.18). The antiquity of this embodied expression is evi-

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denced by many of the monolithic sculptures at the Middle Horizon site of Tiwanaku (aka Tiahuanaco). This was already a ruined ceremonial city in the time of the Inka, but they claimed it as a part of their own mythic history and considered it as their place of origin (see chapter 15, by Pärssinen). The site was venerated by them as having been built by Viracocha, the supreme creator deity who gave ordered life to the world. Each sculpture (fig. 10.20) holds a quero-shaped vessel in one hand, as if offering it to this generative and powerful deity, who the Inka believed had created even the sculptures themselves. The amicable and reciprocal exchange of toasts between Andean lords and the great Andean gods was widespread in both time and space. If we look at the East Tomb and the West Tomb at Huaca Loro, a rich and powerful Middle Sicán complex on the north coast (in the mid–La Leche valley) that dates to around 1000 c.e., we see a literal representation in tomb sculpture of what Guaman Poma depicts in his drawings. The dead lords entombed here were buried in a seated and crosslegged position as if they were alive, just as the Inka royal mummies were seated on their tianas in Cuzco’s plaza, where they exchanged toasts with each other and Inti each day. The principal personage in the East Tomb was positioned looking west, toward the Pacific. He held one high-karat gold (with silver bottom) cup (aquilla) in the left hand of a long artificial arm attached to his mummified and bundled body (fig. 10.21). The body of the West Tomb principal personage was placed in the same burial position (also facing west) and had his tumbaga (alloys composed predominantly of copper, gold, and silver) cup held in the right hand of a long artificial arm that was also attached to his mummified and bundled body (Shimada et al. 2004; Klaus et al. n.d.). At the very least these burials suggest that these mummies were offering a perpetual toast (not unlike the Tiwanaku sculptures) and that this act was intensified or at least stressed by the large artificial arms of each. Moreover, the clearly differentiated right and left arms, as well as the material difference between the high-karat gold and the tumbaga vessels, suggest a venerable Andean symbolic articulation of status differentiation. The exaggerated act of toasting also manifests the importance of such an offering, an act that still today initiates a set of obligations and relations. Clearly the Inka were drawing on long-standing and widely used forms of material and ritual expression.

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The Inka utilized a precisely differentiated vessel that in form and design was similar to but distinct from all other ones. The regularity of quero is in keeping with the Inka creation of a unified visual and material culture that could be experienced throughout the administrative/ritual centers of Tawantinsuyu. Visual uniformity, intensified by abstraction, was, as already mentioned, an exercise of Inka political power on culture. The geometric motifs cut into the quero’s surface manifest this aesthetics of politics. The designs are immediately recognizable as Inka and distinct from local traditions. Yet Tawantinsuyu was not just a secular political apparatus meant to extract local resources. Power itself was divine, and in the first instance the divine was substantiated in the person of the Sapa Inka. The manifested presence of the sacred was revealed in many other ways and forms, and it can be argued that the incision method of decorating the quero’s surface also referenced this quality of the Inka aesthetic. Inka quero designs do not lie on the surface. They emerge as the artisan cuts into the wood (fig. 10.22). The design is therefore always latent in the wood, just as the vessel form is. It is even possible that each pair of queros came from a single block of wood, making each vessel materially as well as conceptually related to its partner. This is at least indicated by Garcilaso de la Vega, who writes that “they had . . . cups for drinking all in pairs: be they big or small they had to be of the same size, the same form, of the same metal, gold or silver or of wood” (1609: bk. 6, ch. 22 [53]). Being produced in pairs is thus an intrinsic attribute of queros and aquillas. It may even be that each pair of silver and gold aquillas was made from a single raw sheet of silver or gold, and this perhaps extracted from the same vein of ore; that is, the metal vessels too come from a single source, just like the wooden queros—contributing to the creation of a densely symbolically related pair. As Garcilaso de la Vega makes clear, the practice of crafting objects in pairs is based upon the social relations that are enacted through ritual drinking. That relationship is, as mentioned, predicated upon the moiety division of ayllu communities14 into hanan and hurin; each pair of vessels thus is a materialization of this social division, just like the physical arrangements of the Inka in their celebrations in Cuzco’s plaza. The pair is even personified as hermanos (brothers) by Garcilaso de la Vega. And although one could argue that he is working with a seventeenth-century understanding of the word hermano,15 he is actually referring to the Quechua term

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Figure 10.21. The Middle Sicán male personage buried in the East Tomb at the Huaca Loro temple, ca. 1000 c.e.. (Photo courtesy Izumi Shimada)

Figure 10.20. Standing sculpture of figure holding a quero in the left hand, known as ”El Fraile.” Tiwanaku, ca. 700 c.e. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

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Figure 10.22. One of a pair of Inka wooden drinking cups, queros, with a design of severed heads and arms around the rim. Private collection, ca. 1450–1532 c.e. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

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Figure 10.23. Stone “seat” (huaca) carved in the rounded hill behind Sacsayhuaman, ca. 1500 c.e. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

Figure 10.24. Sun on stone wall at Ollantaytambo fortress in the Urubamba valley, ca. 1520 c.e. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

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yanantin yanantillan, which Holguín translates as dos cosas hermanadas (two joined or twinned things). Yanantin is a term and a concept critical to social identity in the Andes, as discussed by Platt (1978), and it finds its materialization in the production of aquillas and queros. The querokamayuq (quero-maker, or specialist), in this sense, releases the quero from its natural state, bringing both the object and its image into being simultaneously. The vessel and its design are interdependent with respect to their substance. The geometric abstraction of the motifs visually heightens this relationship. The intricate spacing of the lines creates a pattern of light and shadow, so that one first recognizes the forms embedded in the material as part of the wood itself; thus the pattern in the wood is not only visible but tactile, and sensed as one holds the vessel. There is an indissoluble integrity between appearance and substance. Similar concepts operate among the various media

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of Inka visual art. Inka stone sculptures found around Cuzco and other Inka centers are, as mentioned, often carved in a highly abstract, geometric style. These are sacred sites (huacas) in the landscape, and the stone is cut in situ to reveal that sacredness. The stone is rarely sculpted into the likeness of something seen elsewhere (e.g., fig. 10.23). The act of cutting the stone alters its natural state, but it never loses its material appearance as stone. The geometric abstraction emerges from the natural rock formations of which it is a part. The sun casts shadows emphasizing the sharp angles and straight lines of the sculptural forms (e.g., fig. 10.24), but this only intensifies the integrity between the material and its worked appearance. Each such sculpture marks a highly charged locus in the socioreligious world of the Inka, a place where ritual attention is focused (Van de Guchte 1990). The visual nature of this manifestation does not disassociate its sacredness from the substance of which it is produced or from the natural environment that encompasses it. Again an illustration by Guaman Poma depicts pictorially the concept of camay (kamay), discussed below, as it exists within the natural state of the stone (fig. 10.25). He here depicts the myth of a large stone that was being dragged from a quarry to an Inka center so as to be formed into an ashlar block for building. At a certain point the stone becomes too tired, weeps blood, and eventually comes to rest where it is. That is, the boulder is attributed a will and an animacy that it exerts on its own behalf. Guaman Poma illustrates this by painting first the irregular surface of the stone, suggesting its natural form. However, he sketches within this natural rough surface the regularized geometric form of an ashlar block, the state into which it was to be carved once it reached its destination in Cuzco. Furthermore, he animates the block by depicting a pair of eyes. In other words, the form of what the stone is to become is already existent (latent) within its natural state. What is visually expressed in this colonial image is the Quechua idea of camay, or the potentiality, existent within any natural state, to be realized as a metaphysical presence of the sacred, as discussed below. This notion is intensified here by the anthropomorphism of the stone itself. Guaman Poma endows it with a pair of eyes that look forward and in the direction it is being moved. Inka tapestry-weave textiles (cumbi) bear geometric abstract designs similar to those on queros and stone sculptures (fig. 10.26). More importantly, like

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Figure 10.25. Stone being transported by Inka for building. Color wash by Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, from Martin de Murúa, Historia del origen y genealogía real de los reyes inkas del Piru. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

Figure 10.26. Detail of a male tunic (uncu) with tocapu design of severed head and arms. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

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the queros, the designs do not lie on the surface but are embedded within the object itself, as a part of the textile’s structure.16 Appearance and object emerge simultaneously in the generative act of weaving. The abstract designs are even more intrinsic to the cumbi cloth than the quero designs are to the wood. There is no real distinction between background and image in cumbi; rather, they are structurally integrated at the moment of their mutual production, just as the llamas of the walls at Choquequirao described above are. The quero, cumbi, and stone huaca are not the same things, and they operated variously in Inka culture. Moreover, abstract motifs such as tocapu signified concepts external to the object on which they appear. Yet abstraction can also be seen to call attention to the object itself and to what it is, what it consists of, and how it is used. Inka abstraction therefore might be more than just the visual expression of the aesthetics of cultural uniformity by a political entity: it may also be an index of a type of referentiality existing within the Andean cosmological concept of camay, its raison d’être. Camay can be considered the supernatural vitalization of all material things for which there is a supernatural prototype, camac. People, animals, and natural and cultural objects are the concrete manifestations of this essence and energy. The name of Pachacamac, the great coastal deity, incorporates the word camac, and “Pachacamac” is translated by Frank Salomon as “who charges the world with being.” The generative capacity of camay is not restricted, however, to the great Andean deities such as Pachacamac, who, as mentioned above, was worshiped at a venerable pilgrimage complex where the Inka built their own sun temple and filled the plaza with the same white sand that filled the plaza in Cuzco. Lesser earthly manifestations, in the form of local huacas, could animate smaller entities, such as stones left or placed in the middle of a field. Even the master craftsmen of Tawantinsuyu are associated—through their special skills—with the capacity to infuse the objects of their production with this essence of being. Labels such as cumbikamayuq, querokamayuq, and khipukamayuq, used throughout Tawantinsuyu to refer to master weavers, master woodworkers, and master record keepers of knotted cords (khipus), respectively, all include the term kamayuq. Translatable as “specialist,” kamayuq literally means “possessor of a specific force or energy (kamay/camay).”

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The Past Made Present: Style and Form in Inka Art The relationship between the craftsman and the object implied in such titles as cumbikamayuq and querokamayuq may have suggested more than the knowledge or the capacity to physically produce a cultural object. It may also have been referencing the craftperson’s ability to imbue the object with its essential properties. The Inka concept of the object, its ontology, exceeds utilitarian function. Each object substantiates camay in a material, visual form.17 Each object is brought into being and exists with all others, participating phenomenologically in the events of the world. Often the object is the only material participant in what otherwise cannot be experienced directly through the sense of sight. For example, a vessel is revered and kept because either the Inka or a deity has drunk from it. That is, the vessel is a tangible manifestation of the exchange, an exchange that can be replicated through the use of the object. Other objects, including bodies of the dead, are kept in Andean communities, but not as heirlooms. They constitute participants in, and therefore “witnesses” to, past events. Their existence potentially allows a speaker to recount the past as something known firsthand, as alluded to above. Equally, the body of an ancestor could speak for the will and decision of the dead through the voice of a living descendent. The social life of an Andean object begins with the creative act, just as it does for the human being and seemingly everything else. In this sense, the object can be an intermediary of social relations, perhaps even participating equally in the formulation of those relations. This does not mean that every type of object has the same social and aesthetic effect or value. Some things are more significant than others. Cumbi cloth was one of those types of things, as were aquillas and queros. Aquillas, queros, and cumbi cloth, for example, were the first gifts offered to the curacas (leaders) of a community by the Inka when they appeared at the border, expressing their peaceful intent to incorporate the residents of that area into the Pax Inkaica of Tawantinsuyu (Cummins 2002). For those who accepted the gifts and made peace with the Inka, the vessels and tunics (uncus made of vicuña and alpaca wool) became witnesses of this agreement, and they were kept in the local communities, venerated almost as sacred relics because they had touched the hand of the Sapa Inka, the son of Inti, the sun god. These valued gifts, kept in different

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and unconnected communities, created a great uniformity of Inka material and sacred presence throughout the Andes, as they continued to be given in state rituals. Moreover, the Inka required that their most important calendric rituals be carried out simultaneously throughout Tawantinsuyu, and the uncus (cumbi) were worn and the vessels (aquillas/queros) were used in ceremonial feasting, as described above for Cuzco. Albornóz ([ca. 1582] 1989:19) says that such rituals continued into the Colonial period: the military feats of the Inka were recalled through song, the cumbi tunics with checkerboard design were brought out, and the queros were used to offer reciprocal toasts. He ordered these things to be burned, as they were objects of aide-mémoire, recalling not only historical events but also the divinity of the Inka. These uncus and vessels (aquillas/queros) are the same items that the Inka presented to the curacas when they accepted the Inkas’ offer to become part of Tawantinsuyu, and they acted as another type of aide-mémoire, becoming a part of their ritual and political display after their death. In certain regions of Tawantinsuyu these gifts were incorporated into funerary structures that represented the new affiliation with the Inka. Such structures, called chullpas, were stone and adobe above-ground tombs that were built in the southern area of Tawantinsuyu; the best-known of these are in the Río Lauca region of Bolivia, where the chullpas of the Aymara-speaking Carangas are still visible. Many of them are painted on the exterior with designs that are clearly derived from Inka uncu designs (e.g., fig. 10.27). A chullpa near Sajama Volcano, Oruois (ca. 1520 c.e.), is painted with a design that is very similar to that on the uncu of Tupac Inka Yupanqui, the “tenth” Inka (ca. 1476–1495 c.e.), who conquered the territory, as depicted in a late sixteenth-­century portrait (Gisbert et al. 1996:44–50; cf. chapter 15, by Pärssinen). Gisbert suggests, correctly I believe, that the painted designs of the Carangas’ chullpas are to be identified with the Aymara mallcus (curacas) who had accepted Inka rule and who were buried in the structures (49). The abstract designs may have signified, among other things, the political alliance that had been historically forged between the Inka and the ancestors placed within. Moreover, placed over the entrance to the chambers and embedded walls was a pair of queros, which most likely were also presented by the Inka. The structures therefore became more than local ethnic burial places. As Tom Abercrombie (1998:182) suggests, the painted chullpas were emblem-

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atic beacons of the Inka, emblazoned like a patchwork of three-dimensional tocapu on the landscape of Tawantinsuyu. They and the bodies of the ancestors inside, draped with Inka uncus, helped to recall—or better, to instantiate—a number of local mytho-historic narratives that linked them to the great history of Tawantinsuyu. Just as important is that we can see that the tocapu design, which is so often associated only with Inka textiles, becomes almost the insignia of the Inka, and an indicator of their presence in a specific geographic place, when it marks the painted walls of chullpas. The decoration of the chullpas with tocapu coincides with what can be gathered from the only known textual discussion of tocapus and what they signify in a specific context, which appears in an early seventeenth-century pen-and-ink drawing by Santa Cruz Pachacuti Yamqui (fig. 10.28). We see, sketched on a piece of European paper, three rectangular nested forms. Pachacuti Yam­ qui tells us that together they represent the sacred site of Pacaritambo, or the three Inka origin caves. The Inka emerged from the central cave, called Tambotoco, and it is represented by a quincunx composition, a very common tocapu design. A circle with four other circles establishing the four quadrants marks the center of the tocapu. A central diamond and three concentric framing rectangles enclose these elements. What one can deduce then from the tocapus on the chullpas and the drawing by Pachacuti Yamqui is that these beautiful abstract geometric forms were meaningful and could be used, at the very least, to signify historic and mythic concepts of place (Cummins 2011). Inka art and architecture can therefore be seen as neither passive nor contemplative. The abstract designs characterizing Inka textiles, sculptures, and buildings all have resonance in terms of the social formation of the individual. That is, these geometric shapes are embodied within patterns of thought about space and movement as well as social relations. The concept of the recursive has a broader context. The artistic creations of the Inka actively engage humans with the world around them in various overlapping and reinforcing ways. For example, the beautifully rounded walls at Machu Picchu, the Coricancha at the center of Cuzco, and the sun temple at Ingapirca in the southern highlands of Ecuador have stones uniquely cut so as to articulate precisely their curvature. Their curving walls break from the rectangular regularity of almost all other Inka buildings, visually marking the heightened sacrality of these structures. Also, as mentioned above, the double-jamb

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Figure 10.27. Male tunic (uncu) with waistband (chumpi) of a diamond tocapu shape, ca. 1500 c.e. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York Rogers Fund, 1982 (1982.365).

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doorway, through its formal repetition, calls attention to the door itself. Mannheim (n.d.) has identified recursion, through linguistic analysis, as one of the key formal processes by which things are made autotelic—that is, by which the interpretation is built into the object. The autotelicity of an Inka entrance is embodied in the double-jamb; its meaning is that it is not just a door, but a door that requires interpretation on the part of users. In this case, as one first sees and perhaps passes through this portal, one must understand that it marks a passageway that is beyond the normal. The style of a particular Inka art form can also mark in specific ways the mythic/historic past as being something both remembered and present. This materialization of Inka history and mythic history can first be understood through a consideration of what one was supposed to see in the style of Inka masonry. The stonework of Inka built structures, of course, shows a great variety of styles of stone cutting, types of stone, joins, etc. (Dean 2010). These differences may very well reveal the intended interpretations of each building, as

mentioned above. But in general, they all were intended to mark the presence of the Inka and their divine nature as well as to provide the matrix in which rituals were performed. Hence, the exterior walls were as important, or more so, for forming performative space as any Inka interior. Just as important, and in connection to creating ritual spaces, Inka walls and buildings were also meant to recall the Inka’s religious and cultural origins at Tiwanaku, as mentioned above (see chapters 3 and 4, by Cerrón-­Palomino and Shinoda, respectively). For example, Bernabé Cobo, a colonial Jesuit chronicler, writes that the great leader Pachacuti was the Inka who transformed Cuzco into a great city filled with magnificent buildings. Cobo says that what Pachacuti experienced at Tiwanaku inspired him to build as he did: Pachacuti went to Tiahuanaco [Tiwanaku] to see its magnificent buildings, whose style of stonework he came to greatly admire, having never seen such manner of buildings. And so he commanded his builders to observe and study this building

Figure 10.28. Inka caves of origin represented in the form of tocapu. Drawing by Kyle Huffman after drawing by Juan de Santa Cruz Pachacuti Yamqui, Relación de antigüedades deste reyno del Perú (1613). Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid.

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style very closely because he wanted all [the new] works to be built in Cusco to be built according to this type of construction. . . . This king having expanded his empire greatly and so he decided to illuminate the provinces by building principal towns with temples and buildings in the style he had seen at Tiahuanaco. Cobo ([1653] 1964:82)18

Whether the walls of Cuzco really copied what the Inka saw at Tiwanaku is not what is important, but rather the assertion that this is what Pachacuti ordered and did. And although one can, of course, see that there are certain vague similarities between the ruins at Tiwanaku and Inka buildings (the precise fit of stone on stone, etc.), it is the claim to this historical connection that is crucial. The mythic past, represented by the existing ruins at a sacred place, is understood as being generative for what the Inka built in the present. The style of Inka walls and architecture clearly did make some visual analogy in the mind of the Inkas to Tiwanaku as a real locus of their mytho-history. More important, this historical analogy allows us to understand that Inka walls, which might appear to us as a rather mundane and uncommunicative set of stone forms, were imbued with great significance (Dean 2010; Cummins and Mannheim 2011). One of the great aesthetic and technical achievements of Inka planning and architecture is that their settlements were animated by flowing, channeled water (Sherbondy 1982, 1992; and see chapter 12, by Nair and Protzen). For instance, Tipón, south of Cuzco (fig. 10.29), and Machu Picchu, to the north, have beautiful waterways and canals—which rhythmically separate into sections of two or three streams and then rejoin as one—coursing throughout each site in a cosmic circulation of life-giving liquid (Sherbondy 1982, 1992; Cummins and Mannheim 2011). As already mentioned, two rivers, the Saphi/Huatanay and Tullumayo, rushed from the hills above Cuzco to form the sacred limits of the city. These flowing waters were used in Inka rituals (see relevant discussion by Schjellerup in chapter 17), the most important being the December (when the regular annual rain season begins in much of the Peruvian Andes) ritual sacrifice called Mayucati, in which all the remains of the year’s sacrifices were gathered together while at the same time a number of dams were built in the rivers.19 When the first dams were broken, the water rushed forward, bursting through all the other dams below, moving with ever-increasing force until the water rushed

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Figure 10.29. Water cascading down through andenes (agricultural terraces) at Tipón. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

though Cuzco, carrying the residue of all the year’s sacrifices with it ([1576] 2008:108–109). The place where the dam in the Saphi/Huatanay was built can still be recognized by a boulder in the river (fig. 10.30) that has a step-fret design (chakana) carved in relief. Similar motifs were cut into other stones, such as at Ollantay­ tambo, which has water flowing over it (fig. 10.31). The point where the Saphi/Huatanay joined the Tullumayu is a tinku, a term that expresses the underlying conflictive competition of a society and its resolution, and which, as Veronica Cereceda (1987) has described, is an underlying principle of the Andean aesthetic of beauty. The related aesthetic concept is expressed by yanantin. As mentioned above, yanantin implies a necessity for two things, when the telos of each is fulfilled only by their being together and thereby being made complete. This concept goes against the notion of the unique or the individual as a quality of beauty, and it is one of the underlying expressions of the duality that structures so much of Andean thought. González Holguín (1989:364) gives the mundane example of

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Figure 10.30. Boulder in Saphi/Huatanay River above Cuzco, with sculpted chakana design, ca. 1450 c.e. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

shoes or gloves for yanantin: one shoe or glove is insufficient; there must be the other for the joint purpose to be whole or complete. Yanantin, however, is not simply about a mundane pairs of things. It implies the fundamental importance of mirrored opposites, rather than identical things. Thus one’s competitor in a game or ritual battle and one’s companion in drinking embody both yanantin and tinku. These are fundamental social and aesthetic principles that are enacted through ritual practice in the plazas at puma chupan and are instantiated by tocapu designs, aquillas and queros, and many other feasting plates and bowls. Returning to the December ritual of purification and sacrifice (Mayucati), we can see these expressions enacted in Cuzco, where, at the tinku (or joining of the two boundary rivers), the Inka stood waiting for the rushing water in order to throw the sacrificial remains into the river as an act of thanks, so as to not appear ungrateful to the “hacedor de todas cosas” (“creator of all things”; i.e., Viracocha). One can imagine that this was also a symbolic tinku of the social division of Cuzco,

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Figure 10.31. Stone fountain incised with a chakana design at Ollantaytambo, ca. 1450 c.e. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

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Figure 10.32. Colonial Inka wooden paccha with quero vessel and stem with zigzag channels, ca. 1600 c.e. Inka Museum, National University of Cuzco. (Photo courtesy Yutaka Yoshii)

Figure 10.33. Paccha in the form of a forearm and hand offering quero, ca. 1500 c.e. Excavated at Machu Picchu by Hiram Bingham. Ht. 3.1 in. Yale Peabody Museum 16962. (Photo courtesy Richard Burger)

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wherein the members of Hanan and Hurin stood on either side of the newly joined river, Huatanay (tied or braided together), where they acted as one socioreligious body and made their combined offerings. This interpretation can be suggested not because of the early colonial sources that we have, but because of contemporary examples. Today, where two Andean streams or canals come together as tinku,20 the people who maintain them gather at this point and drink to the waters and each other when the canals are cleaned in ritual renewal ( Juan Ossio, pers. comm. and video, 2011). To instantiate this union, the villagers use a ritual wooden vessel called a paccha, a quero vessel that is attached to a long rectangular stem (fig. 10.32). A zigzag channel is cut in the upper/top side of the wooden stem. When the water, maize beer, and/or blood is poured into the quero vessel, the liquid flows out and into the stem, following the meandering channel, which continuously separates, joins, and crosses over until the streams join at the end and pour back out through a spout.21 Members of Hanan and Hurin (the two moieties to which the terms tinku and yanantin ultimately refer) also drink from the end and toast each other. Then they toast with the river, pouring the liquid as they do so from the paccha into the river. This offering acknowl-

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edges the rivers’ nourishing waters, which will flow into the fields and then into one of the great Andean rivers, all of which ultimately were thought to join as one. This single great river then flows into the ocean (Mamacocha), from which it rises up into the sky, to return via the Milky Way, which is called mayu, or river, and the rains of the sky (Urton 1981:38, 56–65, 106–150). This is the eternal cosmic circulation on which all life in the Andes depends and for which thanks is given through offerings made via paccha. The flow of water and other liquids is not just an animating feature that is built into the Andean landscape and Inka sites. Many Inka ceramic vessels, and really the only figural ceramics made by the Inka, are pacchas. That is, they perform the same function as the wooden pacchas still in use today. One example is a carefully modeled life-size ceramic right forearm and hand that reaches forward to offer a drinking cup (fig. 10.33). This Inka ceramic piece is very similar to the two artificial arms attached to the mummies found at Huaca Loro on the north coast (see fig. 10.21), each of which held a metal drinking cup (aquilla) in his outstretched hand. This ceramic cup was most probably made by Chimú artists who had been brought from the north coast to Cuzco, and thus it belongs to the traditions of that area. Nonetheless, it was incorporated by the Inka, as it expresses succinctly the importance of Inka ritual exchange as enacted through offering a ritual drink of chicha, maize beer, in a special vessel. It also evokes yanantin: held in this hand is one of the most important Inka ritual objects, the drinking cup. The sculpture implies its partner, as there is no such thing as an individually produced quero or aquilla  .  .  . or a single arm. Each has its mirrored opposite because no one ever drinks alone. Moreover, the liquid that pours from this paccha instantiates the reciprocal toast with Pachamama, mother earth. Another paccha form, and one of the most common, implies this exchange with Pachamama by depicting the instruments of agricultural work, the fruits of that labor, and ritual offering. The plasticity of clay permits the combination of an urpu (arybaloid ceramic jar for transporting maize beer),22 an ear of maize, and the working or digging end of a chakitaclla (a wooden footplow) into a single sculptural composition (fig. 10.34). An offering of aqha (maize beer) is first poured into the urpu, then passes through the chakitaclla, and finally empties into the ground, thereby completing the cycle of planting, harvesting, fermenting, and consuming

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implied by these “utilitarian objects” and their quotidian use (Stone-Miller 2006). The agency of Inka prestigious objects—be they stone masonry, textiles, gold and silver objects, wooden thrones, or cups and ceramic pacchas—was more than the representation of Inka power, religion, and culture. As already mentioned in relation to camay, their creation manifested the divine and intercourse with it. But further, their presence also brought the past forward, to the here and now. That is, these objects and buildings, whether broken, in ruin, or in good condition, could recall the past for a speaker as if they had been present when events first occurred. One could speak as if one were an eyewitness to ancient or mythical events if he or she were in proximity to an object or a building that had been present when the event occurred. In other words, the material presence of these things had the capacity (agency) to change the condition of knowl-

Figure 10.34. Paccha in the form of an ear of maize, urpu (vessel), and chakitaclla (footplow), ca. 1500 c.e. Central Reserve Bank of Peru Museum. (Photo courtesy Yutaka Yoshii)

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Figure 10.35. Oval platform mound built by the Inka at the Cañari site of Ingapirca, Ecuador, ca. 1520 c.e. (Photo T. B. Cummins)

edge, moving linguistically from expressing what one knew as being based on hearsay to being able to express it as absolute knowledge through experience. The Inka therefore understood the value of the places and people they conquered as they brought them under their power and authority. Not only did they build new centers, such as Huánuco Pampa and Tarma, but they incorporated themselves into important existing, more ancient ceremonial sites. That is, the Inka did not normally destroy and then build over the religious sites they assimilated into the empire. These were venerable places filled with the knowledge of the ancestors and their deities. The Inka either visited venerable oracles such as Chavín de Huántar and Tiwanaku, or built their own temples alongside them. For example, the Inka built their temple of the sun at Pachacamac, the great coastal pilgrimage site, near the main pre-Inka temple, but they did not built on top of it. They did not project supreme dominion over this sacred place or the deity of

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Pachacamac (known as Ychsma in pre-Inka times). The Inka did the same thing at Ingapirca in southern Ecuador, where they built their oval-shaped sun temple just to the north of the Cañari temples (fig. 10.35). The two compounds exist side by side even though the Cañari were some of the fiercest enemies the Inka had faced. The Inka were said to have brought the portable huacas of the peoples they incorporated into the empire to Cuzco, where they kept them (Garcilaso de la Vega 1609; see chapter 17, by Schjellerup). However, the most sacred things in the Andes were not small devotional images, but unmovable places, parts of the landscape, such as the high Andean shrine of Paricaca, the principal huaca, east of Pachacamac.23 A map from the 1580s depicts the highest mountain of the area with an amorphously formed “idol” of “Pariacaca” at the top. It was still being worshiped fifty years after the conquest and is marked as an idol that one passes on the way to Cuzco. In truth, Pariacaca was understood as the central

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Andean supreme mountain deity and was worshiped in relation to Pachacamac on the coast. Together they were the reigning apus of the central Andes before the Inka domination and continued to be even after it. We know this because the only compendium of recorded myths in Quechua, the Huarochirí Manuscript (anonymous, 1607; published 1991), comes from the area of Pariacaca’s domain, and it details from a local perspective how the Inka had to accommodate themselves to this all-powerful mountain god. The Inka interactions are described in a form that is not so very different from how they negotiated with the lords of Huarochirí, offering gifts and holding feasts for them just as they did with lords of all the territories that came under their control. That is, Inka gifts of textiles and golden cups were surely offered in such a way that this deity was incorporated into an ever-expanding family of huacas, of which Inti and Viracocha were the foundational ancestors. Conclusion When we take stock of Inka art and architecture, there can be no doubt that the Inka created a distinctive style and set of forms. And while these were distinctive from all local forms, they could be appreciated and understood at a profound level by most communities because the Inka forms tapped into long-held traditions and beliefs. More important, perhaps, is that Inka forms of artistic expression were not, by and large, about projecting some fearsome image of the state. There are no horrific fanged deities, as once roamed the sculptures and textiles of ancient Peru. Nor are there images of defeated warriors. Even the sacrifice of their most beautiful children was done so as to suggest an image of eternal repose, and they were given gifts of textiles and aquillas and queros to feast with the gods. There is no savage disarticulation of the body through horrific dismemberment, as practiced by the Aztecs and the Europeans. What Inka artistic expression in many ways meant to accomplish was to animate even further the world of Tawantinsuyu through the agency endowed in the objects and images they created. At the same time they built upon lived social and religious patterns. That this cosmic animation also coincided with political power and social control is without doubt; however, this was not cynical manipulation through image, something we

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are all too familiar with in the modern world. It was a desire for cosmic order and its expression, the accomplishment of which was nonetheless to the great material benefit of the Inka in Cuzco. Future Considerations The study of Inka art and architecture is still in its infancy. There are studies of disparate media, concepts, forms, and objects, but an integrated investigation has not been undertaken. Hence we have recent studies of the khipu (Urton), metallurgy (Lechtman), architecture (Protzen and Nair), textiles (Phipps, A.  Rowe), stonework (Dean, Ogburn), and ceramics (various), but these studies really have yet to speak to each other and to discuss how such forms and media were understood by the Inka in relation to each other. Rather, study has progressed following Western epistemological divisions and interests that are mainly academic and disciplinary. For example, the 1999 book Los Inkas: Arte y símbolos was divided into chapters on various subjects and media, but they did not talk to each other. I believe that greater imagination, coupled with a more interdisciplinary approach, will allow us to move beyond the literal and extrapolations from the literal. For example, Rowe (1967) took the name for the join of the two rivers at Cuzco, puma chupan, and translated it literally as “puma’s tail.” From there he imagined that the whole of Cuzco was laid out in the profile of a puma. A more allegorical understanding of what puma chupan means in terms of water movement and ritual is called for, something suggested by Zuidema (1982) but never fully pursued. Similarly, the Quechua term quilca means, more or less, “to make a mark,” and a very small number of very vague references to painted boards in Cuzco have led scholars to posit a lost system of Inka image making (Adorno 1986; Julien 1999) and writing, often interpreted through tocapu studies (Ibarra Grasso 1953; Jara 1964; Szeminski 1992, 2010; Ziółkowski et al. 2008; Silverman 2012), without ever offering rigorous and critical studies of quilca and tocapu and how they might fit into a greater system. If the Inka were able to conceive of the whole of what they conquered as a set of coherent and interdependent related parts, then we should ask whether this might also apply to how the Inka conceived of everything they created to place throughout Tawantinsuyu in order to make it peacefully ordered and divinely adorned.

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Notes

1. See Baca (1953, 1971, 1989) for the low percentages of figural images on Inka ceramics. He estimates that only 5 percent of Inka ceramic designs depict a human figure (1971:11). 2. Quilca has an abstract rather than a concrete meaning, indicating the visual trace of an act of making a mark, be it through scratching, painting, drawing, etc. In the Colonial period, the word quilca expanded to designate writing, drawing, and painting, and the objects associated with those acts, especially writing (González Holguín 1989:301, 513; Santo Tomás 1951:357; and Cummins 2011). 3. I would like to thank Andrew Hamilton for pointing out these images to me and for our discussion about Inka figural sculpture in general. 4. A recursive form is sometimes used in Quechua to form the plural: a word is repeated or doubled to create the plural, instead of the suffix -kuna being added to it. The repeated or double-jam trapezoidal doorway is a recursive form similar to this grammatical feature, but here it marks not a greater amount of a thing but its heightened significance. 5. I use the word “imperial” here in the generic sense of a single, expansive social and political entity that superimposed standards of cultural and economic behavior on communities that were integrated into its realm of rule. Opposition was met with force, and acceptance with certain advantages. 6. The forms and iconography of Aztec art have been viewed as analogous to Roman and Greek sculpture, whereas Inka works have not (see Cummins n.d.). Inka technology and political structures are often compared to those of the Romans; see McCormack 2006 for a detailed discussion of colonial comparison between the Inka and the Romans, and Lupher 2006 for a broader discussion. 7. Luis Jerónimo de Oré ([1598] 1992:155) recounts that a tunic embedded with the fingernails of the ancestors was kept as a memory of the past and as proof of their land rights: “Y en la provincia de los Collahuas conocí un indio que tenia guardaba una camiseta, sembrada toda ella de uñas de indios que sus abuelos habian muertos y por memoria hazañosa se preciaba tener prendas de tantas vidas como alli se vian que saltaban, y fue por defender las chacras de aquella provincia, que ellos posseian.” 8. For a full discussion of this image see Cummins 2011, and for the manuscript and its history see Ossio 2004. 9. The use of sand as a material of consecration and ritual dedication has a long archaeological history in the Andes. For example, the Temple of the Columns at the Early Horizon site of Huaca Lucía–Cholope in the mid–La Leche valley on the north coast (ca. 1000–700 b.c.e.) was ritually entombed in eight meters of pure fine white sand (source still undetermined) at the time of its abandonment. Its huge columns, three meters high, were taken down and placed on the floor to be buried. The central stairway—five meters high and sixteen meters wide—was similarly buried. After the sand was put in place, regularly spaced bonfires were placed atop the buried temple. See Shimada 1981; Shimada 1986; and Shimada et al. 1982. 10. Cocha refers to a lake (Lake Titicaca) or ocean (Mamacocha); the term also refers to a ritual vessel from which maize beer

Shimada_5545_10-pp3.indd 192

or water is poured, probably because it waters the thirsty earth and allows things to grow (see González Holquín 1989:57 and Cummins and Mannheim 2011). 11. “Yten: Mandamos que ayga otro Cuzco en Quito y otro en Tumi [Pampa] y otro en Guanoco [Pampa] y otro en Hatun Colla y otro en Charcas y la cauesa que fuese el Cuzco y que se ajuntasen de las prouincias a las cauesas al consejo y fuese ley” (Guaman Poma de Ayala [1615:187] 1981:185). 12. In Quechua first-person pronouns we find a linguistic correlate to this type of design as it expands from one to the whole and vice versa. The Quechua word for “I” is noqa. The first-person plural is formed from noqa/I, which is not unusual. There are, however, two forms of the first-person plural: noqayku “we [exclusive]” and noqanchis “we [inclusive].” What this means in terms of self-expression is that the very way in which the plural is formed indicates the importance of individual identity in relation to groups. Hence, every member can situate himor herself as ego in relation to discrete membership in a collectivity of some formation in distinction to others and at the same time define self as a part of the other. 13. For an understanding of how similar concepts and practices still enliven the dusty plaza of a small contemporary Andean colonial town, see the very insightful and original study by G. Urton (1988). 14. Sixteenth-century sources unanimously identify the ayllu as the most important collective social group in the Andes; its members were related to one another through descent from a common founding (often mythic) ancestor. For example, Domingo de Santo Tomás, in his 1560 dictionary, defined the ayllu as follows: “Among them, if a gentleman is particularly known in some way, his children take on his name; and not only the children, but all his descendants and in that way are formed among them the lineages that they call ayllu and pachaca (a grouping of ayllus). And in this way in all of the rest of the provinces of Peru, each lineage, which they call ayllus, takes the name of their ancestor” (Santo Tomás 1951). The ayllus were divided into two equal halves (hanan and hurin) to form the entire community, and each one was led by a curaca or, as translated into Spanish, principal. This social division was a structuring social binary relationship engendering a series of symbolic relations, expressed by “high”/”low,” “right”/”left,” “male”/”female,” and other such metaphors. The ayllu was a widespread and persistent pre-Inka community of diverse size whose members collectively possessed their own lands, pastures, and water supply; these were worked and maintained through a system of reciprocity as organized by the two curacas. 15. Sebastián de Covarrubias y Orozco (1611:531) first defines hermanos as siblings but immediately goes on to write: “Ermanos suelen lamarse los que están aliados o confederados”; this could be interpreted as what is implied by Garcilaso de la Vega’s use of the term to describe the condition of being paired. 16. Irene Emery, in The Primary Structures of Fabrics (1966), calls this style “structural weaving”: the resulting appearance/ design is predetermined and built into the process of selecting the raw materials. As Mary Frame (1986) has argued, this relationship, at least in weaving, between design and structure has a long history in the Andes. Heather Lechtman (1996) suggests

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the same for metalworking and discusses the concept of camay in what she calls surface metallurgy in regard to the process of the widely known technique of surface depletion or surface enrichment of tumbaga alloys. The technique has a long pre-Inka tradition. There are very few Inka examples, but from Spanish written complaints about the actual gold content of the things they were melting down, it seems very clear that many of these objects were made using this ancient technique. 17. Gerald Taylor (1976) has written a penetrating analysis of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century uses of the root kama-. As regards the verbal form, kamay (camay), “nous le traduisons par ‘animer’ en donnant à ce terme la valeur multiple que lui accorde Garcilaso, c’est-à-dire: ‘transmettre la force vitale et la soutenir, protéger la personne ou la chose qui en sont les bénéficiaires.’ Le monde animé des Andes évoque un horizon beaucoup plus vaste que son équivalent occidental; toute chose que possède une fonction ou une fin est animée afin que sa fonction ou sa fin puissent être réalisées: les champs, les montagnes, les pierres aussi bien que les hommes����������������������������������� ”���������������������������������� (Taylor 1976:235). A �������������� note of caution is necessary, as the meanings “animate” and “transmit a vital force” do not require the action camay to have an agent. For this reason, the Third Council of Lima (Tercer Concilio Limense 1585:77v) chose to use the word ruraque (one who makes something) rather than camaque in the Quechua translation of the Nicene Creed. Were they to have used camaque, the translation would have been ambiguous, since camaque can also be understood as the agent of the vital force, an entity or person infused with a vital force, or the prototype for a species or object. (They were not consistent in their usage, however; see Tercer Concilio Limense 1585:5r.) The word camachisqa is a nominalized [-sqa] causative [-chi] form of camay. According to Taylor (1976:236), the causative suffix -chi indicates that the vital force is received from elsewhere: “on fournit à l’autre la capacité ou l’autorisation d’agir.” 18. Cieza de León (1553: chap. 105 [284]) is the first chronicler to write that Cuzco was built according to the style of Tiwanaku. 19. Several chroniclers, including José de Acosta ([1590] 1962:305–306, 312, 317) and Cobo ([1653] 1964:146), mention this ritual. The best description, however, is by Molina ([1576] 2008). 20. González Holquín in 1608 defined the place where two rivers come together as “Mayuptincuqquen, o mayu tincuk. Junta de dos rios o tincuk mayu” (1989:164). Mayu is the Quechua word for “river” and tinku means “join.” 21. Similar Inka meandering canals and drops (paqchas) are cut into the living stone just outside of Cuzco and at other sites. 22. The urpu, or a fragment of one, is considered by some archaeologists as the most diagnostic form of all Inka ceramics ( Julien 1983:187–188, 202). 23. This fact gave Spanish extirpators of idolatry fits, as they could not destroy the things that the Andeans really worshiped; see for example Arriaga’s ([1621] 1968) advice to priests after he tried to destroy a stone huaca. Even though he had smashed the huaca and thrown the pieces from the bridge spanning Rimac River in Lima, the highland people, to whom the huaca belonged, came to the middle of the bridge to worship it.

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C H A P T E R 11

Inka Textile Traditions and Their Colonial Counterparts Elena Phipps

Inka textiles (1438–1532 c.e.), made for and used by noble families, ruling elites, and state officials, are known for the austere geometry of their design and the high quality of their weaving, and are among the finest textiles ever made in the Andes. Their production and design—including motifs and layout, materials, and techniques—were orchestrated by Inka administrators and represent, in a physical way, the empire itself. Control, identity, perfection, consistency, value of material, and processes—among other attributes, all incorporated within the context of an understated and clearly defined aesthetic—exemplify the Inka tradition and represent aspects of Inka philosophy and practice (e.g., fig. 11.1). They stand in contrast to the colorful and pictorial Andean antecedent textile traditions developed hundreds, if not thousands, of years earlier, as exemplified in the polychrome embroidered mantles from the Paracas peninsula on the south coast of Peru (300 b.c.e.–100 c.e.), which are covered with supernatural figures and highly articulated designs. Another example that contrasts with Inka aesthetics can be seen in the elaborate highland Wari (400–100 b.c.e.) tapestry-woven tunics with complex figurative and narrative ritual imagery—such as a staff-holding deity and his kneeling winged attendants (fig. 11.2)—that draws from the iconography of the stone-carved monuments at the type-site of Tiwanaku, especially the Gateway of the Sun.1 Comparison to these earlier traditions underscores the Inka restraint in their design approach, which is visible in the choice of a limited color palette (white, black, red, yellow, dark purple, and, rarely, blue or green), the specific set of geometric design motifs, and the garment design layout, all of which indicate the highly selective nature of the Inka plan. The Inka were highly selective not only in their design program, but also in their choice

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of tapestry-weaving technique, which was picked from among all the Andean weaving techniques known and used at the time to make their fine garments. Peruvian weavers were among the most creative in their techniques, developing a broad array of methods to produce designs on cloth. Woven textiles are constructed via the sequential interlacing of two basic groups of yarns—called warps and wefts. Generally, the warps are the first set of yarns placed on the looms, and the wefts interlace across them perpendicularly, forming a grid. Many different types of fabrics can be created in this way, but each type has an orientation defined by the weaving process, the materials, and the loom. This orientation is visible, as patterns or designs are constructed with one surface, and in one direction, either with the warp or the weft. In the Andes, two basic weaving traditions predominated: weft-patterned, which includes tapestry work, and warp-patterned. Many cultures from the coastal region created weft-patterned cloth, while warp-­ patterning is associated with the highlands. One technique found in both regions is tapestry. The artistic utility of this technique is that, because only the weft yarns are visible on the cloth’s surface, it enables the weaver to freely create designs on the surface that visually go beyond the grid of the woven cloth. Tapestry weave, with its weft-faced weave structure, is formed with densely packed yarns. For the Inka—and this was not the case for much of the tapestry cloth from coastal traditions—hundreds of yarns per inch might have been woven to create intricate designs, in an intensive and time-consuming process. This technique was highly regulated and was executed by expert weavers, called cumbicamayos (cumikamayuq), using the finest of materials: a strong cotton warp yarn, and fine, pliable, and polychrome camelid hair weft yarns—of alpaca, vicuña,

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Figure 11.1. White Inka tunic with diamond waistband. Tapestry weave; cotton warp and camelid hair weft. 74.3 x 177.8 cm (woven dimensions). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rogers Fund (1982.365). (Photo courtesy The Metropolitan Museum of Art)

and guanaco (domesticated and wild animals from the highlands)—spun and dyed with great skill. Tapestry, however, was not the standard weaving technique used in the highlands for the majority of their textile production. Traditional highland weaving was instead undertaken on a different type of loom, and used the warp yarns—the first set of yarns on the

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loom—rather than the weft yarns to create the designs and patterns. This warp-faced weaving was the more predominant weaving method indigenous to the highland region, and had traditionally been used to produce the majority of textiles used and worn by local, nonelite peoples (see, e.g., fig. 11.3). In a warp-faced fabric, the wefts are not visible, and designs are generally

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restricted to stripes and small-scale patterning running from beginning to end throughout the textile; the color sequences of such fabrics are predetermined before weaving, when the yarns are placed on the loom. In contrast, in the weft-faced tapestry weave, the warps are not visible and designs can be freely made; the tightly placed yarns form a surface that can be embellished with polychrome yarns wherever the pattern requires. This contrast between warp- and weft-faced weaving has had many interesting effects in the history of Inka textile production and design, and we can find examples of the interchange between the two methods reflected in the presence of design motifs that originated in one technique but subsequently were re-­ created in the other (Phipps 2004a:21–24, and figs. 19 and 20). This is particularly true for the textiles made for women’s garments, though it occurs in the designs of some men’s tunics as well (fig. 11.4). The visual referencing of non-elite textiles within the design vocabulary of the royal or elite articles has interesting social and cultural implications that require

further study. It may be in fact that local weaving traditions were adapted and transformed into the Inka elite iconography, their humble origins set aside, although perhaps retaining their regional significance and recognizability in respect to social groups, ayllus, or specific localities. Although warp-faced and warp-patterned weaving prevailed in the region (and continues to this day in the Quechua and Aymara communities of the Andes), the Inka administration’s decision to produce tapestrywoven garments draws on precedents from several highly developed antecedent, highland cultures of the southern Andes who shared related iconographic programs and weaving techniques to create extraordinary textiles. This is especially true for the Wari and Tiwanaku cultures (400–1000 c.e.), with whom the Inka claim shared ancestral origins, notably among the cultures of the Lake Titicaca region (see chapters 3 and 4, by Cerrón-Palomino and Shinoda).2 Although the Inka produced their textiles hundreds of years later, Wari tunics, with their brightly colored

Figure 11.2. Miniature tunic with staff bearers, ca. 800–850 c.e. Tapestry weave; wool (camelid hair) and cotton. Peru, south highlands, Wari style. Private collection. (Photo courtesy of the owner)

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Figure 11.3. Bolivian warp-patterned textile from a chullpa. Camelid hair. Staatliches Museum für Völkerkunde, Munich, Troll Collection 27-58-27. (Photography by Marianne Franke, courtesy of the Staatliches Museum für Völkerkunde, Munich/ State Museum of Ethnology Munich)

Figure 11.4. Man’s tunic, 1476–1534, Inka. Tapestry weave; camelid fiber and cotton. 91.44 x 76.2 cm. Peru, south coast. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Costume Council and Museum Associates Purchase (M. 78.54.2). (Photo from Digital Image © 2011 Museum Associates/LACMA. Licensed by Art Resource, NY)

and complex tapestry-woven designs, may have served as a type of model for Inka weavers—at least in their use of the extremely fine techniques of tapestry, if not the iconographic program. We know that the Inka, whose administrative center was Cuzco, looked to Lake Titicaca as a sacred place, and the place of origin of their god Viracocha, according to mythology, as recorded after the conquest (Betanzos 1996). Whether or not the Inka had the opportunity to see or lay claim to actual textiles from the earlier period is not clear, although some of the finest Inka weavers—the cumbikamayuq, the Inka masterweavers—had their workshops in Capachica and Milliraya, along the shores of Lake Titicaca, the same area associated with the Tiwanaku culture (fig. 11.5; Phipps 2004b:24–25; Spurling 1991). This was also the grazing area for herds of alpaca, vicuña, and guanaco, whose silk-like hairs were used for the fine weaving by both cultures. Highly valued throughout the empire for their social, political, and religious functions (Murra 1962),

textiles and their production encompassed all aspects of Andean life and work. This included the animal husbandry and agricultural practices performed to breed and raise the animals and to grow and harvest the plants that served as the raw materials; the spinning and preparation of the raw materials into the millions of lengths of yarns used in weaving; the growing and gathering of the plants, flowers, roots, and other sources used to make the dyes and colorants; the weaving and finishing of cloth; and the tailoring and stitching into garments (Gayton 1961). The production of textiles by this broad spectrum of the members of the Inka Empire constituted one of the major enterprises of Inka administration and society. While household production of cloth provided the textiles necessary for daily life—garments, blankets, bags, and ropes—royal workshops of the Inka weavers were established in locations throughout the empire to produce the very fine textiles used by the nobility, the royal army, and the religious officials (Murra 1962;

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Rowe 1979). Through a system of selection, women, beginning at a young age, were “chosen” to spin and weave for the Inka king, and lived in special places that served as centers of production. Referred to as the aqlla, this cloistered group was devoted to the production of yarns and textiles of the finest quality, as well as to the making of chicha, the alcoholic maize drink used for all ritual occasions. Much of our information about the aqllas comes from colonial chroniclers, and notably Guaman Poma de Ayala, who describes the age-grading system and the tasks associated with these groups: gathering flowers for dyeing, undertaken by young girls; spinning yarn, done by adolescents and the elderly; and weaving, the task of the young and mature women (Guaman Poma de Ayala [1615/1616] 2006; Zuidema 1990). The textiles produced by the women of the aq­llas and the male masterweavers were the highquality fabrics known as cumbi.

Cumbi Early colonial writers use the term cumbi to describe the fine textiles made by the Inka. The word implies a technique as well as a quality of weave, indicating that the Inka differentiated their fine, or cumbi, weaving from those of coarser, simpler types, called awaska.3 According to José de Acosta (1590), cumbi was a high-quality cloth made with designs formed “on two faces” (Acosta [1590] 1979:210). This has generally been interpreted to mean tapestry weave, of which

the majority of Inka official garments were made. The double-­sided character of the weave is a special feature that exemplifies the high craftsmanship and great attention to detail used in its production. Another interpretation is given in a colonial document from the 1590 manuscript of Martín de Murúa (referred to as the Galvin Murúa, after its current owner) that provides encoded details of the weaving of a special belt made for the Coyas, the Inka queens (Murúa [1590] 2004: fol. 172v). Here the term is used to describe what has been interpreted to represent a warp-patterned weave structure (Desrosiers 1985). Desrosiers, after extensive reconstruction of the coded cloth, argues that the term cumbi in fact refers to high-quality patterned fabric, regardless of technique; this would mean that both weaving traditions were used to produce Inka official textiles. While Andean textiles made in the highlands can be crafted of high-quality warp-faced weaving, the designation of the weft-faced tapestry as the official method for the production of the garments of the king and the appointed administrators of the empire was a deliberate step in the differentiation between non-elite and elite fabric, an articulation of status and identity through the public presentation of dress. Key to the presentation, and an important aspect of Inka social performance, was that the garment be imbued with specific qualities that served to differentiate the Inka-by-blood and the Inka-by-privilege from the general populations. This was signaled by the wearing, the giving, and the receiving of these specially woven garments.

Figure 11.5. Inka weaving centers near Lake Titicaca. (Map by A. Roy, after Phipps 2004b:25, fig. 25)

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Inka Garments

palmos wide and two varas long. They leave the neck open on the loom itself, so that there is nothing to cut; when it is taken

Inka official garments have remarkably recognizable characteristics in their design, format, and quality of weaving. Male garments include a tunic, called uncu, and possibly a shoulder mantle and coca bag. Women’s garments consisted of a wrapped dress, pinned at the shoulder and held at the waist with a belt, and a shoulder mantle, pinned at the breast (fig. 11.6). These basic garment types have been described in detail in colonial documents. Around 1610 in Cuzco, Father Bernabé Cobo mentions

off the loom, no further craft work is necessary, but to fold it and sew up the sides with the same threads with which it was woven, as one sews up a sack, leaving unsewn in the upper part of each side enough space to put the arms through. It ordinarily reaches to their knees or three or four fingers further up. (Cobo [1653: bk. 4, chap. 2] 1890–1895:4.160)

For women’s dress, he explains: They wear [the dress] like a sleeve-less soutane or tunic the same width at the top as at the bottom; it covers them

a short garment without sleeves or collar which they call Uncu

from the neck to the feet. No hole is made for their head to

and which we call camiseta, because it has the form of our

fit through. They put it on the following way: they wind it

camisas [shirts]. Each one is woven separately, for they are not

around the body under the arms and, pulling the edges over

accustomed to making long bolts of cloth as we do and cut-

the shoulders, they bring them together and fasten them with

ting them to make garments. The piece of cloth of which they

their pins. This dress or soutane is called anacu. (Cobo [1653:

make this tunic is like a strip of ticking; it is three and a half

bk. 14, chap. 2] 1990:187–188)

Figure 11.6. Dressed miniature figurine, Inka. Silver figurine with tapestry garments, silver pin, feather headdress, Spondylus shell. 17 cm high. Templo de la Piedra Sagrada, Túcume, Peru. Museo de Sitio Túcume, Peru (R HL TPS 195). (Photo Daniel Giannoni)

Figure 11.7. Mummy with Inka checkerboard tunic. 100 x 80 x 50 cm. Acquisition from Art Collector Dr. Franz Xavier Weizinger, 1921. Museum der Kulturen, Basel, Switzerland. (Photo Markus Gruber. © 2007 Museum der Kulturen, Basel, Switzerland)

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Cobo’s descriptions are very accurate, and provide information about not only the garments, but how they were made: notably, without cutting the cloth. This is true for all Inka garments—that is, they were woven as rectangular lengths of cloth, with finished edges, that were sometimes seamed together with other lengths of cloth, but never cut. Many uncus, whole and in fragments, have been preserved, and the multiple examples of tunics with a particular set of consistent designs demonstrate that there was a methodology and practice in their production. John Rowe, in his seminal essay on the subject (Rowe 1979), remarked on the standardization of Inka tunics, grouping these archaeologically recovered garments according to their designs. These groups include: the black-and-white checkerboard tunic with red neck yoke used by the Inka royal army (see fig. 10.12 in this volume); another checkerboard type with a particular design of diagonal and squares referred to as “Inka key” by Rowe (fig. 11.7); a tunic with a waistband design of multiple geometric designs called tocapu, which may have been for nobility; and a tunic with a waistband design consisting of diamond shapes, possibly associated with ritual activity (see fig. 11.1). Few Inka textiles from the Inka heartland of the Cuzco region, their center of power, have been associated with archaeological findspots. Those that have been found in situ were recovered in regions far from the highlands, along the Peruvian coast, particularly in the Lurín, Ica, Nasca, and Acari valleys in the south (Uhle 1991; J. Rowe 1979; A. Rowe 1995–1996). This uneven distribution of preserved examples is due primarily to the aridity of the coast, which favors the preservation of the organic material in textiles. Among the elite textiles that have been recovered are a number of items (whole or in fragments), found in different geographical locations within the vast Inka empire, that share common designs and compositions within a consistent format. These include both male and female garments, although tunics worn by men are among the most often preserved and easiest to recognize as being of Inka manufacture. Female garments, primarily untailored, rectangular cloths, and often having less distinctive design features, can be more difficult to identify, particularly when found in fragments, which may account for their being less recognizable among archaeological finds.

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Capacochas and High-Altitude Offerings New insights on textiles have come from recent archaeological discoveries, by Johan Reinhard and others, at ceremonial sites in the very high altitudes (above six thousand meters) of the volcanic mountain peaks of the Arequipa region of southern Peru and in Salta in northern Argentina (Reinhard and Cerutti 2000, 2010). Many of the burials in these frozen landscapes yielded extremely well-preserved textiles: ritual garments for those individuals who had been part of human sacrifice ceremonies, and miniature garments that served as offerings for dressed figurines made of precious gold, silver, or Spondylus shell (see fig. 11.6). The capacocha ritual—a sacred Inka ceremony, initiated only in times of great need, involving the sacrifice of young adolescents in the prime of life in honor of Ylapa (the god of lightning) and other gods thought by the Inka to reside in the highest peaks of the Andes— was described by Spanish chroniclers.4 While generally associated with the highland peaks, dressed figurines of the same type and style have also been found in archaeological sites located on the northern coast of Peru, including one example found inside a building construction wall in Túcume (see Phipps et al. 2004: nos. 1 and 2, 128–129; Heyerdahl et al. 1995). A dressed Spondylus shell figurine been recently found at the Moche site of Huaca de la Luna (fig. 11.8) also belongs to this group of capacocha figurines.5 The presence of the same ritual cluster of artifacts and garments in such extremely varied geographic and climatic locations is an indication of the extent, and perhaps the flexibility, of Inka ritual activity as practiced by local populations within their own sacred localities throughout the vast reaches of the empire. The remarkable condition of the garments of these dressed figurines—especially those from high altitudes—has provided exceptionally well-preserved examples, in miniature, of the various components of Inka dress. While male figurines wear their uncus and carry coca bags, the female figurines have provided much-needed information about each component of women’s costume: their dresses, mantles, feathered headdresses, belts, and pins, and the elaborate cordage used to hold them together. We do not have actual burials, but only the remains of the sacrificed young women whose bodies were frozen in the high altitudes. It is only with the recent discoveries of these miniature figurines that we can understand the component parts of the

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Figure 11.8. Dressed miniature figurine, Inka. Spondylus shell figurine with tapestry garments, silver pin, feather headdress. Excavated at Huaca de la Luna, Moche, Peru. (Photo Yutaka Yoshii, 2011, courtesy Dr. Uceda)

ensembles in the capacocha burials, which up until now may otherwise have survived only as fragments. The importance of the recent high-altitude finds cannot be stressed enough, especially in terms of how they have expanded our knowledge of Inka dress, especially female garments. Because so much focus in the literature has been on the male tunics, our understanding of women’s clothing was scant until only recently. This was in part, as noted earlier, a result of the difficulty in identifying components of women’s garments among archaeological finds and fragments; virtually all such items were made of rectangular pieces of cloth, for the most part without tailoring. Or, in the case of garments that were seamed or stitched together, there had been few clues to interpreting their origin and function. The very important article by Desrosiers (1988)

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opened all our eyes regarding the identification of female garments. She observed that most Andean women’s clothing was constructed or worn with a horizontal orientation, while male garments used a vertical orientation—particularly for the feature of the neck openings in upper garments, and the direction of design features. In another very significant work on Inka women’s garments, Rowe (A. Rowe 1995–1996) examined archaeological materials and colonial documents and detailed the various items of dress, all of which were present in the high-altitude finds. Rowe also pointed out differences between the Inka women’s mantles and their dresses, in terms of symmetrical variations that had not been clearly understood—as both garments consist of rectangular cloths—and it is here especially that the well-preserved finds in the high-altitude burials, where full clothing ensembles remained intact, were particularly important.6 Study of these materials tells us a lot about the individual garments, including how to identify their function, how they were worn, and what their related attachments were, as well as what constitutes the entire ensemble and its components. All of this information can be gleaned from examining the outfits of the young sacrificed women, and their likenesses in miniature, the dressed figurines found accompanying them. The female wardrobe included a dress, which was wrapped around the body and fastened at the shoulders with two large pins (usually silver, although sometimes copper) and held at the waist with a belt (see Vetter Parodi and Carcedo de Mufarech 2009 on the symbolic nature of female tupus). Over the dress is a mantle, a rectangular garment that wraps around the shoulders and is pinned at the breast. There seem to be two sizes—one a smaller, shoulder garment, and the other a very large cloth that is often folded in half before it is wrapped and pinned. Important details that we see especially in the miniature garment sets include the rarely preserved decorative cord that joins the two dress pins, an intricate, complex braiding, with Spondylus shell pendants, that is wrapped around the shaft of the pins, securing them in place, while connecting them (see fig. 11.6, with neck cord at the front). This is an important feature as the large dress pins, consisting of a long shaft with, usually, a large disk-like round head, are worn with the weighty head positioned downward; the wrapping of the cord would keep them from slipping out of position. Additionally, a feathered headdress worn with the ensemble

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(sometimes composed of red and other times white feathers) is found on both miniature and human figures. Prior to these high-altitude finds, our knowledge about Inka women’s garments and their role in ritual life came primarily from examination of the textiles preserved at the site of Pachacamac, the great pilgrimage center in the Lurín valley just south of Lima, which contained a building complex that housed the aqlla, the cloistered institution for women chosen to serve the Inka and the cult of the sun in the making of clothing and chicha. The so-called Temple of the Sacrificed Women, excavated by Uhle in 1903 (Uhle and Shimada 1990), was an important source of archaeological finds, among which were a number of female dress items. A group of mantles, both whole and in fragments, of several design types was published at that time (accompanied now by Ann Rowe’s more recent publication of mantles and dresses from the excavation). Our understanding of their significance has been deepened now

that we have a broader picture of their use and uniformity of design and construction through comparison with the more recently discovered mummies of the capacocha burials. And this is especially true with the finding, in the 1980s, of a spectacular example of one of the large anacus, in pristine condition, in the walled structure (fig. 11.9; Phipps, Hecht, and Esteras 2004: cat. 3, 130–132). A full mantle—said to have belonged to the wife of Atahualpa, the last of the Inka kings, and taken by Marshall José Antonio de Sucre to Colombia after the nineteenth-century battles for the liberation of Peru— has also very recently come to light7 (Acosta and Phipps 2011). These examples indicate that the standardization that we have seen and known about for male tunics was also in play with the garments of the Coyas and highstatus women—at least for those who participated in the mainstream religious and ceremonial life of Inka ritual. Inka Textiles from around the Empire

Figure 11.9. Woman’s dress (anacu), Inka. Warp-faced plain weave with warp-float patterning. Camelid hair. 215.9 x 158.8 cm. Pachacamac: Old Temple. Museo de Sitio Arqueológico, Pachacamac, Peru (MSPACH 595). (Photo Daniel Giannoni)

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While the cultural and religious center of Inka life was based in Cuzco, much of what we know about Inka textiles comes primarily from artifacts preserved on the periphery of the empire. Coastal examples from Pachacamac and the Ica and Nasca valleys represent a mixture of what might be considered “pure” Inka garments—such as the checkerboard tunics—and others that have been labeled as “provincial Inka” (see A. Rowe 1992). This illustrates that while Inka standards were imposed to produce a circumscribed set of Inka designs, at the same time some leeway was afforded for the incorporation of elements that had regional or local meanings. One group of artifacts that shows this interesting intersection between local and official Inka culture is the Inka-style garments that have been preserved in outposts of the Chachapoya cliff burials in the “cloud forest” region of the north highlands (fig. 11.10; Bjerregaard 2007; see chapter 17, by Schjellerup). In objects from these disparate regions we see adaptations of Inka ideas modified to local tastes. Certainly checkerboard tunics, perhaps the most symbolic of Inka culture, as they would have been worn by the soldiers and forerunners of empirical power in advance of the Inka king, offer some interesting variants, as seen in garments made in outlying regions (fig. 11.11). This may in

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Figure 11.10. Regional uncu with Inka-style designs. Chachapoyas. Museo Leymebamba. (Photo Yutaka Yoshii)

Figure 11.11. Tunic (Inka?) with brown and white checkered design with stripes. Courtesy of Ministerio de Cultura/Museo Nacional de Arqueología, Antropología e Historia del Perú (7472). (Photo Daniel Giannoni)

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some way reflect the incorporation of ethnic identifiers and locally significant elements into the Inka template. Other variants include the so-called Inka eight-pointed star—a design mostly associated with textiles from the southern coast of Peru.8 Some of these divergences from the standardized Inka design program may reflect the incorporation of local identifiers into the administrative role and function of the garments. They might also be local variants that resulted from the establishment of weaving centers under local control. The lack of archaeological contexts for many of the so-called provincial tunics that have been preserved has hindered our understanding of the whole culture of textile production. Some sites of production have been studied; at Huánuco Pampa in the central highlands, architectural features of the weavers’ housing and their looms have been investigated, while storage facilities at Milliraya in the southern highlands have been explored (Morris 1974; Morris and Thompson 1985; D’Altroy 1992; Spurling 1992; Arrellano and Matos 2007). From these, and from colonial documents, we have some ideas about the ways in which the weaving workshops and production were organized. Insights regarding some of the manufacturing processes of Inka garments have come from excavations in Rodadero, in the Acari valley south of Nasca, Peru. A cache of woven but not yet stitched panels of women’s cotton mantles (or possibly dresses) (Katterman and Riddell 1994) was found there, providing an interesting example of the separation of the work processes—weaving versus stitching—that were part of the Inka textile production. These standardized panels of medium to low quality, woven en masse, were likely produced as mit’a (labor service required of all able-bodied subjects) requirements. The large-scale production required for fulfilling mit’a requirements was responsible for providing the basic garments that were widely distributed as part of Inka social governance. The fact that these garments are cotton, a fiber grown and used primarily on the coast, may indicate their intended use in the region. Their lower-grade quality as simple, coarser cloth also causes us to reconsider the issue of Inka control and quality (D’Altroy 1992). While we think of Inka textiles as being produced of the finest of materials, and with the greatest of skill, this may have been true only for those textiles intended for the king and the noble classes. This high-quality weaving—the cumbi cloth, differentiated from the awasca, or coarser, cloth—was exceptional.9 Those spe-

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cial examples of the cumbi, tapestry-woven garments, made of finely spun alpaca hair and embellished with hundreds of yarns per inch of weaving, stand out in their quality and physical character (see fig. 10.1). This tightly packed, densely made tapestry weave, of the finest quality, was used for what was sometimes referred to as the capac uncu—the rich and powerful shirt (Murúa 1987:225). Inka and Colonial Sources What we know about Inka textile traditions, and the function and meaning of textiles in Inka society, comes from a number of different sources, including the study of preserved garments, of which only a few have findspot information, and the analysis of post-Inka colonial documents, paintings, and manuscripts that directly or indirectly describe aspects of the textiles, their use, and their manufacture (Rowe 1979; A. Rowe 1978, 1997; Phipps 2004b). We also can learn a great deal about the perception of Inka culture by examining textiles made in the Colonial period that utilize Inka design and aesthetic considerations yet incorporate newly introduced materials and symbolic meanings that have been transformed by context and use (see chapter 19, by Amino). When Francisco Pizarro landed in Tumbes in 1528, he sent Indian runners to Atahualpa, the Inka king, who was in the northern highlands town of Guamachuco, to inform him of their arrival. Atahualpa greeted the messengers and heard the news of the arrival of the stranger, whom some considered to be a god. Juan de Betanzos, whose Narrative of the Inka conveys detailed information on the history and culture of the period, says that the first questions asked by the Inka about these strangers concerned their manner of dress: “The Inka asked them what type of man he was and how he was dressed and what kind of garments he wore and how they looked.”10 Understanding the importance of garments in the Andes, and particularly at the time of the Inka, is key to an appreciation of the transformation of the meanings and symbolic associations that came to permeate the colonial world.11 Representations of the Inka—and particularly the Inka kingship, which we know of beginning in the late sixteenth century—are immediately identifiable, through the depiction of their garments. Apart from the uncu, the representation of other personal accoutrements—such as headgear (notably the

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mascapaycha, the tassel attached to the headgear that the Inka king wore symbolizing his supreme imperial power), earspools, shields, and weapons—aids in the identification of their status as nobility. But it is the uncu, covering the body of the king, that first and foremost manifested his identity and authority. During the Inka period, a specific class of uncu was manufactured under royal administration. These garments, among the finest produced in the Andean world, were strictly made according to a detailed set of criteria.12 The end result of these weaving specifications was virtually a garment in which front and back, and inside and outside, were identical and complete. No loose threads are visible to indicate the hand of the artisan or the process by which the item was made. These physical qualities of the cumbi cloth contributed to the meaning of the garments and were culturally recognizable. Tapestry weavers, specialists trained under Inka cumbikamayuq, continued for many years after the conquest to produce finely woven tapestry garments, although a decline in the quality of weaving was noted by Spanish administrators. A decline in quantity of the masterweavers caught the attention of the viceroy Francisco Toledo, who in the 1570s charged his census takers with compiling a list of extant cumbi weavers in the visitas conducted throughout the region (Toledo 1986:24). Though he wanted the fine specialist weavers to be identified, in 1575 Toledo enacted laws, under the authority of the king of Spain, prohibiting the wearing of Inka-style garments.13 These garments—notably the uncu—with their long history in the Andes, embodied in their designs and manufacture aspects of indigenous identity that the Spanish sought to deny. After the conquest, these garments were modified by a series of laws and ordinances governing their design. Those especially associated with the image of royalty were subject to scrutiny, yet at the same time were incorporated into the theatrical aspects of Andean colonial life. They were used intentionally in the public presentation of an “Inka” identity that was sanctioned by both the Church and political officials, and were worn during religious processions, such as Corpus Christi, and for secular festivals (Dean 1999). The wearing of such tunics in these celebrations was recorded in many paintings of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries: for example, in the series of Corpus Christi from the Santa Ana parish of Cuzco (now in the Museo Arzobispal, Cuzco) and in the 1718 painting of the entrance of the viceroy Morcillo into Potosí

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Figure 11.12. Man’s tunic (uncu) with butterfly design. Tapestry weave, cotton warp, camelid weft. 39 x 33½ inches. Provenance: Island of Koati. Purchased by Adolf Bandelier, 1895 American Museum of Natural History, New York (B1502). (Photo courtesy of the Division of Anthropology, American Museum of Natural History)

Figure 11.13. Man’s tunic (uncu) with lions and double-headed crowned eagles. Colonial, southern Andes (Bolivia), seventeenth century. Tapestry weave, cotton warp, and camelid weft. Garment: 35 x 29¾ in. (88.9 x 75.6 cm). (Courtesy private collection)

on April 25, 1716 (Museo de América, Madrid).14 The depictions of such tunics being worn in these processions help to illustrate their social function in colonial society (see fig. 19.1), while the actual tunics that have been preserved from the period provide us with tangible evidence documenting the process of transformation in the material culture.15 Although extant examples of early colonial uncus are structurally almost indistinguishable from their preconquest counterparts, there are differences, notably in their design (Phipps 2004a, 2005). Many Spanish elements were quickly adopted: not only imported silk and silver threads but motifs from a decidedly European design vocabulary, including crowned lions, Hapsburg double-headed eagles, and interlinked floral scrolls and strapwork (figs. 11.12, 11.13). One particularly dramatic innovation in men’s uncus was the stark contrast that emerged between their fronts and backs, which in Inka times were identical. The front of a tunic now in the American Museum of Natural History, New York, for example, is covered with Inka-style

geometric motifs (fig. 11.14a), whereas its back here has a strikingly stylized jaguar-pelt design (fig. 11.14b). It is possible that the differentiation between front and back in the colonial garment served to accentuate its “theatrical” effect in public processions, and we can see this in a number of examples (see Phipps 2005). Of all the Inka symbols altered in colonial garments, tocapu were perhaps the most prominently used, or exploited.16 These variable geometric patterns are inscribed in rectangular or square units forming rows, or betas (according to Guaman Poma), sequenced in what often appears to be a random order (see Guaman Poma [1615/1616] 2006: fol. 87, for example, describing the tunic of Manco Capac as having three “betas” of tocapu in its middle). The term tocapu can refer to a single design unit, a group of units, or, more generally, the graphic device: in other words, it is both singular and plural (see chapter 10, by Cummins). Padre Ludovico Bertonio ([1612] 1984:357), in his Aymara dictionary of 1612, defined the term tocapu isi as “garment or clothing of the Inka made with a thousand marvels.”

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Although the term is specifically garment-related in both early definitions, tocapu embellished various other types of objects, notably queros, the Inka ritual drinking vessels with flaring rims. In the absence of any documentary or historic evidence, the derivation and meaning of tocapu remains unclear. We know that during the Inka period only persons affiliated with the Inka administration were allowed to wear garments with tocapu designs (Murra 1962). Tocapu were also associated with high social status and, perhaps, with place of origin. The profusion of tocapu seen in colonial tapestry garments would have been unknown in Inka times. Multiple rows of tocapu, generally organized in a diagonal alignment, on the waistbands of the tunics were sometimes combined with European motifs such as figures of Spanish soldiers or flowers. Further embellishment, such as embroidered tocapu—a purely colonial invention—can also be found on the lower edges of some tunics and women’s mantles. Sometimes tocapu in

embroidered formats were accompanied by other elaborately embroidered imagery, such as European heraldic lions, castles, and flags, as we see in a black embroidered tunic belonging to the Museo Inka, in Cuzco, and the Brooklyn Museum.17 The other primary innovation in colonial tapestry garments involved the elaborate women’s mantles (Muthmann 1977; Phipps 2004a). Women of Inka noble heritage in the early colonial periods are depicted in paintings—for example, in the portrait of the marriage of don Martín de Loyola to doña Beatriz Ñusta, the late seventeenth-century oil on canvas in the Compañía de Jesús in Cuzco—wearing tocapu-covered mantles (fig. 11.15; see Phipps 2004a:31, fig. 31). These colorful and highly designed garments contrast sharply with the more austere and regular Inka mantles, such as those seen from Pachacamac, with their simple stripes and bands, and some with geometric elements (see fig. 11.9). Beautifully made, with silk

Figure 11.14a. Man’s tunic (uncu) with tocapu and feline pelt deFigure 11.14b. Back of tunic (fig. 11.14a) with animal pelt sign. Lake Titicaca, mid- to late sixteenth-century. Tapestry weave; design. (Photo courtesy the Division of Anthropology, American cotton warp and camelid, silk, and metallic weft. 38½ x 30¾ in. Museum of Natural History) (97.8 x 78.1 cm). Provenance: said to have been found on the Island of Titicaca. Purchased by Adolf Bandelier, 1895. American Museum of Natural History, New York (B1500). (Photo courtesy the Division of Anthropology, American Museum of Natural History)

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Figure 11.15. Portrait of a ñusta, 1730–1750. Oil on canvas. 205 x 124 cm. Museo Inka, Universidad Nacional San Antonio Abad del Cusco. (Photo Daniel Giannoni)

Figure 11.16. Woman’s wedding mantle (lliqlla) with tocapu designs. Tapestry weave; cotton warp and silk and metallic weft. 92.1 x 127 cm. Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum, Smithsonian Institution, New York, Gift of John Pierpont Morgan (1902-1-782). (Photo courtesy Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum, New York, Smithsonian Institution)

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Figure 11.17. Stone box recovered by A. Bandelier in Bolivia, in late nineteenth century, with colonial tunic that had been preserved inside. American Museum of Natural History, New York (B1501). (Photo courtesy the Division of Anthropology, American Museum of Natural History)

and metallic threads, and incorporating both Andean and Spanish designs, these heirloom female garments (fig. 11.16), like their male counterparts, represent the status and identity of the wearer. These tocapu-covered mantles, made with silk and silver threads, represented the finest of the imported materials brought by the Spanish to the Andes, and at the same time utilized intrinsic Andean concepts of design organization as seen in traditional women’s garments, though here more elaborated. The number of preserved heirloom pieces of these women’s mantles is notable, and may be the result of the increased social interactions between women of Inka noble heritage and Spanish administrators and officials. Marriage was a powerful tool for creating social alliances to strengthen Spanish rule. Additionally, the aspect of Andean land rights that followed the matriarchal line, empowered, through marriage and strategic alliances, the Spanish claim to legitimacy (see Silverblatt 1987).

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Conclusion The Inka garments that remain today in museum collections throughout the world were for the most part preserved in archaeological contexts along the dry coastal southern desert of Peru. In contrast, the majority of Colonial-era examples have been preserved in highland collections. Some had been kept in stone boxes (fig. 11.17), such as the one now in the AMNH that is said to have contained the feline pelt tunic (see fig. 11.14). Others had been passed on from generation to generation as inherited legacies, documented in the many wills and testaments from the period, indicating that they were valued as keepsakes of another era (Salomon 1988; Ramos 2004). Worn by nobility or by statues of Christ, or used to clothe huacas and sacred stones and other natural artifacts, the Andean garments remain a powerful legacy of the Inka tradition, mediated through

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the ongoing process of social transformation (Phipps 2005, 2011). Colonial Andean garments attest a remarkable continuity of weaving methodology from Inka times. Though certain features of the Inka masterweavers’ works have been modified, other elements fully retain their “Inka” qualities. Indeed, in some ways, the tunics of the Colonial period became more “Inka” than those actually produced in Inka times. That is, symbolic designs formerly associated implicitly with the Inka nobility were explicitly exaggerated and elaborated in the examples from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. But certain features, whether genuine representations of an Inka concept or self-conscious attributions of applied symbols, remained constant and continued to convey, through their physicality and design, fundamental aspects of the Inka aesthetic and worldview. Through an examination of the garments and the textile traditions that produced them, we can see that the presentation of nobility came through the repetition of certain canons constituting a kind of Inka textile language; these became symbolic, in the Colonial era, of a pan-Andean ideal. Research into Inka and Colonial textiles continues to evolve, through the investigation of archaeological, archival, and ethnohistorical sources. New research areas are opened by collaborations between museum curators and scholars, who work with items in collections, and scientists, conservators, and archaeologists; together these specialists can produce in-depth studies of materials and techniques. One such collaboration involved the analysis of the Getty’s Martín de Murúa early seventeenth-century manuscript, wherein scientists, scholars, conservators, and curators together provided new insights (Cummins and Anderson 2008). The area of textile studies can greatly benefit from such collaborative projects, where conservators’ and scientists’ perspectives can illuminate features of material culture. Since the majority of Inka textiles in museum collections in fact have little or no archaeological context, these material-based studies may help our contextualization. With a broad goal of examining the significance of production and process, the study of the making and meaning of textiles can enrich our understanding of the Inka in the Andean world.

Notes

1. For a recent discussion of Wari–Tiwanaku relationships see Bergh 2012. 2. See Betanzos (1551) 1987; Guaman Poma (1615) 1980; Bauer and Stanish 2001; Rodman 1986; Bergh 2012. 3. J. Rowe 1979; see also Desrosiers 1986 for discussion of cumbi, proposing that the term refers to both warp- and weftfaced weaving; and Phipps 2004a:21–25. 4. Excavation of capacocha sites: see Millán de Palavecino 1966:81–100; Beorchia Nigris 1985; Schobinger 1998; Reinhard and Ceruti 2000. For Colonial period references to the ritual, see Duviols 1976:11–57 and Cobo (1653: bk. 13, chap. 21) 1990:111–112. 5. Thanks to I. Shimada for bringing this very recent find, excavated by Santiago Uceda, to my attention. The Spondylus shell figure has a dress and a mantle, tupus, and its cords. 6. A. Rowe notes that the patternings of the mantles are symmetrical, while those of the dresses are asymmetrical. This may be due to the fact that a dress is worn folded over the front, which allows it to relay a visual symmetry as a garment, though not as a woven cloth. See A. Rowe 1995–1996. 7. I am grateful to Natalia Majluf, Museo de Arte de Lima, and Olga Acosta, Museo Nacional, Bogota, for bringing this incredible and extremely well-preserved historical object to my attention in 2010. 8. See Metropolitan Museum of Art 33.149.100: http:// www.metmuseum.org/Collections/search-the-collections/500 00687?rpp=20&pg=1&ft=inca+tunic&pos=2. 9. See J. Rowe 1979. 10. Betanzos (1551: pt. 2, chap. 17) 1996:236–237. 11. In this regard, it may be worth noting that cloth was one of the very first categories of items listed in Inka state khipus: see Murra 1975. 12. Important work on the subject has been published by Murra (1962) and J. Rowe (1979). 13. Francisco de Toledo, Arequipa, Nov. 6, 1575, in Levillier 1921:3.199. 14. Painting of the entrance of the viceroy, see Acala 1999:146–148. 15. For important early work on the identification of Colonial textiles, see Zimmern 1943–1944; also Cavallo 1967. 16. According to Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa, Viracocha, the Inka creator deity, gave tocapu its name; see Varcárcel 1964:28. 17. See Phipps 1996:184–185 (cat. no. 52). Bibliography Acala, Luisa Elena

1999

Los siglos de oro en los virreinatos de América, 1550– 1700. Madrid: Museo de América.

Acosta, José de

(1590) 1979  Historia natural y moral de las Indias. Ed. Edmundo O’Gorman. Mexico: Fondo de Cultura Económica.

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Acosta, Olga, and Elena Phipps

Desrosiers, Sophie

2011 “The acsu of Atahualpa’s Wife.” Hali 167:185.

1986

Arrellano, Carmen, and Ramiro Matos

2007

“Variations between Inka Installations in the Puna of Chinchayqocha and the Drainage of Tarma.” In Variations in the Expression of Inka Power, ed. Richard Burger, Craig Morris, and Ramiro Mattos, 11–44. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks.

Bandelier, Adolph

1910

The Islands of Titicaca and Koati. New York: Hispanic Society of America.

1988

Duviols, Pierre

1976

Bauer, Brian S., and Charles Stanish

2001

Ritual and Pilgrimage in the Ancient Andes: The Islands of the Sun and the Moon. Austin: University of Texas Press. El enigma de las santuarios indígenas de alta montaña. Revista del Centro de Investigaciones Arqueológicas de Alta Montaña 5. San Juan: Centro de Investigaciones Arqueológicas de Alta Montaña.

“La capacocha: Mecanismo y función del sacrificio humano, su proyección geométrica, su papel en la política integracionista, y en la economía redistributiva del Tawantisuyu.” Allpanchis 9:11–57.

Gayton, A. H.

1961

Beorchia Nigris, Antonio

1985

“An Interpretation of Technical Weaving Data Found in an Early 17th-Century Chronicle.” In The Junius B. Bird Conference on Andean Textiles, 1984, ed. Ann P. Rowe, 219–241. Washington, DC: Textile Museum. “Le techniques de tissage ont-elle un sens? Un mode de lecture des tissus andins.” Techniques et Culture 12:21–56.

“The Cultural Significance of Peruvian Textiles: Production, Functions, Aesthetics.” Kroeber Anthropological Society Papers 25:111–128.

Gisbert, T. Arze S., and M. Cajias

2006 Arte textil y mundo andina. 2nd rev. ed. La Paz: Bolivia Plural.

Bergh, Sue

Gonzáles Holguin, Diego

2012 (ed.)  Wari: Lords of the Ancient Andes. New York: Thames and Hudson.

1608

Bertonio, P. Ludovico

Guaman Poma de Ayala, Felipe

(1612) 1984  Vocabulario de la lengua aymara. Cochabamba: CERES. (1551) 1987  Suma y narración de los Incas. Ed. M. de Carmen Marin Rubio. Madrid: Atlas. (1551) 1996  Narrative of the Incas. Austin: University of Texas Press.

(1615) 1980  Nueva corónica y buen gobierno. Ed. John Murra and Adorno Rolena. Trans. Jorge Urioste. Mexico City: Siglo Veintiuno. (1615) 2006  El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno (1615/1616) (Copenhagen, Royal Library, GKS 2232 4°) http://www.kb.dk/permalink/2006/poma/info /en/frontpage.htm.

Bjerregaard, Lena

Heyerdahl, Thor, Saniel Sandweiss, and Alfred Narváez

2007 Chachapoya Textiles. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, University of Copenhagen.

1995

Betanzos, Juan de

Cavallo, Adolph

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Tapestries of Europe and Peru in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Boston: Museum of Fine Arts.

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“Descripción de material arqueológico proveniente de yacimientos de alta montaña en el área de la Puna.” Anales de arqueología y etnología 21:81–100.

Morris, Craig

1974

Provincial Power in the Inka Empire. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution. 2002 The Inca. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Inka Bodies and the Body of Christ. Durham: Duke University Press.

Gobernantes del Perú: Cartas y papeles, siglo XVI. Documentos del Archivo de Indias. Madrid: Sucesores de Rivadeneyra.

Millán de Palavecino, María Delia

1991

1999

“A Cache of Inca Textiles from Rodadero, Acarí Valley, Peru.” Andean Past 4:141–167.

Levillier, Roberto

D’Altroy, Terence

Dean, Carolyn

“Las tunicas incas en la pintura colonial.” In Mito y simbolo en los Andes: La figura y la palabra, ed. Enrique Urbano, 53–86. Cuzco: CERA “Bartolomé de las Casas.”

Katterman, Grace, and Francis A. Riddell

Cummins, Thomas B. F., and Barbara Anderson

2008 (eds.)  The Getty Murúa: Essay on the Making of Martin de Murúa’s “Historia General del Piru,” J. Paul Getty Museum Ms. Ludwig XIII 16. Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute.

Pyramids of Túcume. London: Thames and Hudson.

Iriarte, Isabel

Cobo, Bernabé

(1653) 1890–1895  Historia del Nuevo Mundo. Ed. Marcos Jimenez de la Spada. 4 vols. Sociedad de Bibliofilos Andaluces. Seville: E. Rasco. (1653) 1956  Historia del Nuevo Mondo. BAE 90–91. Madrid: Atlas. (1653) 1979  History of the Inca Empire. Trans. Roland Hamilton. Austin: University of Texas Press. (1653) 1990  Inca Religion and Customs. Trans. and ed. Roland Hamilton. Austin: University of Texas Press.

Vocabulario de la lengua general de todo el Peru llamada lengua Qquichua, o del Inca. Lima: Francisco del Canto.

“Reconstructing Patterns of Non-Agricultural Production in the Inca Economy: Archaeology and Documents in Institutional Analysis.” In Reconstructing Complex Societies: An Archaeological Colloquium, ed. C. B. Moore, 49–60. Cambridge, MA: American Schools of Oriental Research.

Morris, Craig, and Donald Thompson

1985

Huanuco Pampa: An Inca City and Its Hinterland. London: Thames and Hudson.

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214  ELENA PHIPPS Murra, John V.

1962 1975

“Cloth and Its Function in the Inca State.” American Anthropologist 64:710–728. “Las etnocategorías de un khipu estatal.” In Formaciones económicas y políticas del mundo andino, 248–256. Lima: IEP.

Murúa, Martín de

(1590) 2004  Historia y genealogía real de los reyes incas del Perú, de sus hechos, costumbres, trajes y manera de Gobierno. Madrid: Testimonio Compañía. (1613) 1987  Historia general del Perú. Ed. Manuel Ballesteros Gaibrois. Crónicas de América 35. Madrid: Historia 16. Muthmann, Friedrich

1977 1996

“Textiles as Cultural Memory: Andean Garments in the Colonial Period.” Converging Cultures: Art and Identity in Spanish America, ed. Diana Fane, 144–156. New York: Abrams. 2004a “Garments and Identity in the Colonial Andes.” In The Colonial Andes: Tapestries and Silverwork, 1530–1830, ed. E. Phipps, J. Hecht, and C. Esteras, 16–39. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. 2004b “Cumbi to Tapestry: Collection, Innovation, and Transformation of the Colonial Andean Tapestry Tradition.” In The Colonial Andes: Tapestries and Silverwork, 1530–1830, ed. E. Phipps, J. Hecht, and C. Esteras, 72–97. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. 2005 “Rasgos de nobleza: Los uncus virreinales y sus mo­delos incaico.” In Los Incas: Reyes del Perú, ed. Natalia Majluf, 67–91. Lima: Banco de Crédito. 2011 “Aspects of Nobility: Colonial Andean uncus and Their Inca Models.” Hali 167:97–111. 2014 “Woven Documents: Color, Design, and Cultural Origin of the Textiles in the Getty Murúa.” In New World Manuscripts, ed. B. Anderson and T. Cummins. Los Angeles: Getty Publications. Phipps, Elena, Johanna Hecht, and Cristina Esteras

2004 (eds.)  The Colonial Andes: Tapestries and Silverwork, 1530–1830. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. Ramos, Gabriela

“Símbolos de poder inca durante el Virreinato.” In Los Incas: Reyes del Perú, ed. Natalia Majluf, 43–65. Lima: Banco de Crédito.

Reinhard, Johan, and María Constanza Ceruti

2000 2010

Investigaciones arqueológicas en el volcán Llullaillaco: Complejo ceremonial incaico de alta montaña. Salta: Universidad Católico de Salta. Inca Rituals and Sacred Mountains: A Study of the World’s Highest Archaeological Sites. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, University of California.

Rodman, Amy Oakland

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“Technical Features of Inca Tapestry Tunics.” Textile Museum Journal 17:5–28. “Provincial Inca Tunics of the South Coast of Peru.” Textile Museum Journal 31:5–52. “Inca Weaving and Costume.” Textile Museum Journal 34/35:5–54.

Rowe, John

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Eine peruanische Wirkerei der spanischen Kolonialzeit. Bern: Abegg-Stiftung.

Phipps, Elena

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Bolivia, and North Chile.” PhD diss., University of Texas, Austin. “Textiles and Ethnicity: Tiwanaku in San Pedro de Atacama.” Latin American Antiquity 3:316–340.

“Standardization in Inca Tapestry Tunics.” In The Junius Bird Pre-Columbian Textile Conference, ed. Ann Rowe and Anne Shaffer, 239–264. Washington, DC: Textile Museum and Dumbarton Oaks.

Salomon, Frank

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“Indian Women of Early Colonial Quito as Seen through Their Testaments.” Americas 46:325–341.

Schobinger, Juan

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“Arqueología de alta montaña: Santuarios incaicos en los Andes centro-meridionales.” Beiträge zur allgemeinen und vergleichenden Archäologie 18:363–391.

Silverblatt, Irene

1987

Moon, Sun, and Witches: Gender Ideologies and Class in Inca and Colonial Peru. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Spurling, Geoffrey

1991

“The Organization of Craft Production in the Inka State: The Potters and Weavers of Milliraya.” PhD diss., Cornell University, Ithaca, NY.

Toledo, Francisco de

(1569–1574) 1986  Disposiciones gubernativas para el Virreinnato del Perú. Vol. 1. Ed. G. Lohman Villena. Seville: Escuela de Estudios Hispano-Americanos. Uhle, Max

1991

Pachacamac: A Reprint of the 1903 Edition. Philadelphia: University Museum, University of Pennsylvania.

Varcárcel, Luis Eduardo

1964

Historia del Perú antiguo. Lima: Juan Mejía Baca.

Vetter Parodi, Luisa María, and Paloma Carcedo de Mufarech

2009 El tupu: Símbolo ancestral de identidad femenina. Lima: Gráfica Biblos. Zimmern, Nathalie

1943–1944  “The Tapestries of Colonial Peru.” Brooklyn Museum Journal 4:27–52. 1949 Introduction to Peruvian Costume. Brooklyn: Brooklyn Museum. Zuidema, R. Tom

1990 Inca Civilization in Cuzco. Austin: University of Texas Press. 1991 “Guaman Poma and the Art of Empire: Towards an Iconography of Inca Royal Dress.” In Transatlantic Encounters: Europeans and Andeans in the Sixteenth Century, ed. K. Andrien and R. Adorno, 151–202. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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C H A P T E R 12

The Inka Built Environment Stella Nair and Jean-Pierre Protzen

This chapter offers a review of how the Inka, in the process of creating an empire, manipulated what is generally seen as a standardized architectural language to suit specific local contexts and thereby affirm their dominance. We examine the distinct ways in which the Inka shaped and transformed the natural and built environment; we look at both large-scale practices, such as land transformation in the form of roads, waterworks, agricultural terraces, and settlements, and smaller-scale aspects, such as building types, construction materials, and techniques. During the expansion of their empire, Tawantinsuyu, from about a.d. 1430 to the Spanish conquest in 1532, the Inka launched a massive construction program.1 They created infrastructure as well as smalland large-scale settlements. For example, they built an extensive road network, innumerable agricultural terraces, and vast irrigation systems. Where roads had to cross canyons and rivers, the Inka built suspension bridges, a device hitherto unknown to the Europeans. In conjunction with these works of infrastructure, the Inka built strongholds, way stations, administrative centers, royal retreats, and religious sanctuaries. At way stations and administrative centers, in particular, they built large storage facilities to hold a variety of goods— from food to clothing, to weaponry—to provide for the needs of the traveling Inka and his entourage, the army on the move, and the local population. To fully appreciate the architectural achievements of the Inka, one must take into account the vast, rugged terrain and the many different ecological zones in which they built. The Andes are commonly divided into eight natural regions, which span parched deserts, high-altitude glaciers, and low tropical jungles. From roughly west to east, the eight regions are: the coast, or chala (0–500 masl); the yunga (500–2,300 masl); the

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quechua (2,300–3,500 masl); the suni (3,500–4,000 masl); the puna, or jalaca (4,000–4,800 masl); the cordillera, or janca (4,800–6,768 masl); the high jungle, or rupa rupa (400–1,000 masl); and the low jungle, or omagua (80–400 masl), in the Amazon basin (Pulgar Vidal 1972) (fig. 12.1). Each zone has its own characteristic topography, climate, fauna, flora, and agricultural products. To conquer this varied landscape, the Inka had to develop an architectural practice that could adapt to these diverse regions and climates. The Inka Empire began in the central Andes, in what is now known as the Cuzco valley, a region occupying the quechua and suni zones. As a highland people, the Inka were used to the dramatic, mountainous landscape of glaciated peaks and the deep river valleys that characterize the region. From this nestled valley, the Inka expanded up and down the vast Andean mountain chain, penetrating and capturing all of the adjacent coastal regions as well. The northern Andean regions along the Pacific coast are lush. However, as one moves south, the majority of the coastal lands become notably dry. In fact, the Inka conquered the driest desert in the world, a region that lies in what is today northern Chile. While a large portion of the central and southern coastal area is uninhabitable, numerous verdant river valleys fed by melting glaciers traverse the parched landscape. Thus, the coastal region is an environment of extremes. Contrary to their success in the highlands and along the coast, the Inka had a difficult time penetrating and controlling areas in the dense foliage of the jungle (see chapters 15 and 17, by Pärssinen and Schjellerup, respectively). This area, to the east of the Andean mountain peaks, witnessed many Inka incursions but few Inka military victories. But the Inka were influenced by their contacts with this region and thus incorporated aspects

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216  STELLA NAIR AND JEAN-PIERRE PROTZEN

Figure 12.1. Ecological zones of the Andes. (Redrawn by Jean-Pierre Protzen from Pulgar Vidal 1972:20)

of material and cultural practices of the peoples living in these lush, verdant jungles. In creating their empire, the Inka developed a complex built environment that enabled them to move swiftly across these diverse terrains, climates, and hostile territories, and established a distinct visual and material presence that enabled Inka colonization and continued occupation of new territories. To do this, the Inka crafted an architectural language that could be read as uniquely Inka, while also adapting it (in terms of design, construction, and materials) to specific local contexts. Infrastructure Road Network In the advancement of their empire, the Inka developed an extensive road network, in order to bring in troops and move critical food supplies and goods (see chapter 6, by Covey). This highway system consisted of two main arteries: one along the spine of the high Andes and the other along the Pacific coast. These two roads were connected by numerous transverse highways, which gave access to all the crucial areas of the empire. Travel on this road system was restricted to state business. The common people were not allowed to move about via these routes unless ordered by the state to do so. The Inka built roads to accommodate the movements of their armies, llama trains, and relay runners, or chasqui, who transmitted messages across the empire.

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The width of the roads varied according to the terrain and the importance of the road. Thus, the main highway from Cuzco to Quito, also known as Qhapaq Ñan, was up to sixteen meters in width in places, while other roads varied in width between two and ten meters, depending on the local environmental constraints and the Inka’s objectives in that location (Hyslop 1984:255–257). The roads in the highlands were generally paved with flat stones, and culverts protected them from storm floods. On steep slopes the roads were supported by retaining walls, and in precipitous terrains they were often stepped. In the desert along the coast, the roads were simply marked by a row of stones on either side. When approaching an important mountain site, such as the royal estate of Chinchero, the road would be bounded by finely made stone terraces (Nair 2003:59– 60). To traverse marshes the Inka built elevated causeways, and small watercourses were covered by means of stone blocks or logs laid over corbelled stone abutments. Deep gorges and wild waters were spanned via suspension bridges (to be described below). To cross tranquil waters the Inka sometimes launched pontoon bridges. The Inkas developed a great variety of modes of spanning waterways, revealing the breadth of their engineering capabilities as well as the adaptability of their building practices to local conditions and materials. Terracing Another way that the Inka reshaped the landscape was through the construction of terraces, or andenes. These

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provided critical new arable land for farming. In the vertical landscape of the Andes, with its extreme climates, flat land that could be used to raise vital crops was in high demand. Thus, the ability of the Inka to increase the amount of arable land on steep hillsides opened up new avenues for wealth and power for the conquering Inka (see chapter 8, by Earls and Cervantes). Some terraces were built to support the state, others benefited the religious sector, and still others were for the private use of the supreme Inka and his family group, or panaca. The terraces also symbolized Inka presence and power. Transforming what had been unstable and unproductive mountainside into arable land clearly delineated by Inka architecture, terraces symbolized the Inkas’ power both to conquer the Andean landscape and to transform it into productive terrain (Niles 1992). The importance of this symbolic aspect of Inka terraces can be seen by the fact that Inka terraces tend to be found much more often around the Inka heartland—in particular, around Inka royal estates—than in the provinces (Niles 2004). In this way the Inkas directly connected Inka infrastructure and their power to transform the Andean landscape with Inka elites and their authority. Inka terraces, built throughout the Inka Empire, were carefully adapted to specific environmental and site constraints in order to create productive landscapes and to convey the presence of Inka power in the Andes. Water Management Another aspect of Inka infrastructure that has come into focus more recently is their skill in hydraulic engineering (Wright 2000; Wright, McEwan, and Wright 2006). The Andes, like the rest of the western rim of the Americas, is a relatively young mountain chain. It is therefore an environment that is still sloughing off its outer layers through natural movements of the land. Throughout the region the many streams and rivers, above- or belowground, both enrich neighboring soils and destabilize them. Fed by glaciers, these water systems create a seemingly bucolic natural landscape that belies its instability. While these hidden dangers may fool tourists to the Andes today, the Inka were alert to them. It is because of the Inkas’ sophisticated understanding of hydraulic engineering that they were so successful in building upon and reshaping the Andean landscape. Not only did they understand the subterranean effects of natural water systems, allowing them

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to identify the lands that were the most stable upon which to build, but the Inka also developed a complex engineering system that allowed them to divert water, above- and belowground, to ensure that the landscape they built upon would last for centuries. To bring water to irrigate the agricultural terraces and to supply inhabited areas with water for sanitation, cooking, and other personal needs, the Inka captured water from springs and underground streams, diverted it from rivers and creeks, and built reservoirs and miles and miles of canals. Furthermore they resorted to extensive river corrections to protect existing (or gain new) arable land in floodplains. In elite centers, such as royal estates, palaces, and sanctuaries, the Inka also manipulated water systems in multisensory ways to create a visual, aural, and tactile experience of sacred landscapes (see chapter 14, by Kaulicke, on symbolic dimensions of water management). For example, at Machu Picchu and Chinchero, the Inka created long, uncovered, cascading waterways that ran next to the main staircases that bisected their respective royal estates, providing a powerful sensory experience for anyone walking along these critical pathways. The incorporation of elaborate fountains (and baths of both hot and cold water) was reserved for only the most elite of Inka sites. The power of water, with its ability to affect several senses, was activated at only the most elite Inka centers. Thus the Inka developed a sophisticated hydraulic system that addressed the needs of the larger Andean landscape, while manipulating water at distinct sites in ways that addressed the physical and cultural needs of the particular place. Architecture Alexander von Humboldt, the German naturalist who explored the Andes in the early nineteenth century, wrote about the architecture of the Inka: What seems to me worthy of the highest interest is the uniformity of construction that one perceives in all the Peruvian monuments. It is impossible to examine attentively a single edifice of Inka times without recognizing the same type in all the other monuments that cover the back of the Andes. . . . One should think that a single architect has built this large number of monuments. (1869:449; translation by Protzen)

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There is no question that Inka architecture is easily recognizable by means of a number of frequently recurrent features (Gasparini and Margolies 1980). For example, doorways, windows, and niches are trapezoidal in shape (that is, wider at the bottom than on top). Most buildings are one story high and consist of a single room. They are usually rectangular in plan, with one to several doorways in one of their long sides, and covered with a heavily thatched, steep gable or hip roof. Inka buildings have battered walls; that is, the walls are not vertical but leaning inward. Three or more buildings are often arranged around a courtyard called a kancha. These oft-repeated elements in the Inka built environment paralleled other types of Inka material culture. From the striking checkerboard tunics worn by Inka military men (see chapter 11, by Phipps) to the distinctive shape and design of ceramic vessels such as the maka and urpu, the Inka created a unique visual language that was able to symbolize their presence on both the large and small scale across the vast Andean region.2 Understanding the distinct visual language of the Inka has allowed for important insights into the ways in which they manipulated material culture as part of their conquest strategy. However, to focus solely on the uniformity of Inka structures, as von Humboldt did, is to overlook the range of variation and subtle differences that so enrich this architecture. In recent years, new scholarship has emerged that has highlighted the importance of variation in Inka architecture and related material culture. Thus, it is in studying both standard Inka practices and their local variations that we can begin to appreciate the subtle and creative ways in which the Inka adapted their architectural forms and material to symbolize their presence in, and conquest of, the vast Andean landscape. Major Building Types Perhaps there is no better example of the distinctiveness yet adaptability of Inka architecture than in its use of a single-room structure as the basic form in Inka settlements. This form has often been discussed as an example of the uniformity in Inka architecture, because it is ubiquitous. Drawing from a longer, central Andean building tradition, they used this simple architectural form to create a diversity of site types across the Inka Empire. By making small but important changes, such as in entranceways, the Inka created subtle variations on the form that allowed for its easy use in multiple con-

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texts. These variations in detail allow us to place most Inka buildings into one of three types. TYPE 1

Type 1 consists of a single room, rectangular in plan, with a doorway in one of its long sides; it is a single story high (fig. 12.2). It is covered by a thickly thatched hip or gable roof. Type 1, with its variations, represents the vast majority of Inka buildings and even includes buildings of the highest status, such as the Temple of the Sun, or Coricancha, in Cuzco. A very large type 1 building, with many doorways and possibly a row of posts in the middle, is often referred to as a kallanka. However, recent research has revealed that this use of the term kallanka to describe a building form is actually a modern invention (Nair 2003:141). Other variations of the type 1 form include buildings with two or more doorways, buildings with two stories, and buildings with two rooms, back to back, without any interior connection. TYPE 2

Type 2 buildings have one of their long sides wide open (fig. 12.3). It takes two basic forms: the first type, 2a, has just three walls; the second type, 2b, has four walls but a very wide opening in one of its long sides. If either form becomes a longer building, a pier is added to the open side to support the roof structure. A variant of type 2a consists of two spaces, back to back, with no interior connection. Type 2a appears to be related to ceremonial contexts. Examples of this type are the Main Temple and the Temple of Three Windows at Machu Picchu. TYPE 3

Type 3 buildings have a wide opening in one of their short facades (fig. 12.4). Pedro Pizarro described one of these building types: un aposento muy largo, con una entrada a la culata de este galpón, que dende ella se ve todo lo que ay dentro, porque es tan grande la entrada quanto dize de una pared a otra, y hasta el techo esta toda abierta. ([1571] 1986:160) (a very big lodge, with an entrance in the rear part of this galpón from where one sees everything that is inside because the entrance is so big that it reaches from one wall to the other and is entirely open up to the roof.) (translation by Protzen)

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Figure 12.2. Type 1 building and its variations. (Prepared by Jean-Pierre Protzen)

Figure 12.3. Type 2 building and its variations. (Prepared by Jean-Pierre Protzen)

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Figure 12.4. Type 3 building and its variations. (Prepared by Jean-Pierre Protzen)

This type of building, our type 3a, in contrast to type 2a and as noted by Pizarro, is wide open on one of its short sides. Pizarro’s account bears a striking similarity to a building illustrated by Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala ([1615] 1980:303) and labeled “carpa uaci” (fig. 12.5). In this same illustration, Guaman Poma depicts yet another building, a “cuyus mango,” which is our type 3b. Like type 2b, it has four walls, but it has a wide doorway in one of its short sides. Guaman Poma implies that both cuyus mango and carpa uaci were part of royal palaces, or “Inkap uaci [“casas del ynga” in figure],” house of the Inka. And indeed, following Pizarro, a cuyus mango or a carpa uaci was in Q’asana, the palace of Huayna Capac (one of the last Inka kings), on the northwestern side of Huacaypata, the main plaza of Cuzco ([1571] 1986:160–161), and according to Garcilaso there was a similar structure in Amarukancha, the palace of Huascar (half-brother of Atahualpa, the last Inka king), opposite Q’asana ([1604] 1976:2.108). Neither of these two structures has survived, and we know little about their appearance. At Chinchero, which was the royal estate of Thupa Inka, today’s church is built over what clearly was a cuyus mango (Nair 2003:142–161). Similarly, at Quispiguanca, a royal estate of Huayna Capac, there are the remains of what looks like a variant of a cuyus mango (Niles 1999:166, fig. 6.15, 274). The only standing carpa uaci the authors are aware of is at Huaytará, an Inka settlement on the important Inka road connecting Cuzco with Chincha on the Pacific coast. There, the wellpreserved Inka structure forms the nave of the church. Other Building Types While the majority of Inka buildings consisted of these simple, freestanding rectangular forms, the Inka also created other forms and used them in distinct combinations, as a means of addressing the complex requirements of the Inka state. MULTIROOM BUILDINGS

Figure 12.5. Drawings of building types found at a royal estate, by Guaman Poma de Ayala. (Taken from Guaman Poma [1615:331] 1980:303 and fig. 329)

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While the vast majority of Inka buildings consist of a single room, there are also significant exceptions, revealing both the creatively and the adaptability of the Inka builders. A good example is Pilco Kayma, on the Island of the Sun in Lake Titicaca (fig. 12.6). This building is two stories high and has twelve interconnected rooms on the ground floor. Other examples are two purported aqllawasi, or convent of the Chosen Women (aqllas or

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mamaconas): Iñac Uyu on the Island of the Moon and the Mamacona at Pachacamac. SUNTUR WASI

While many Inka buildings were rectangular in form, not all had this shape. In figure 12.5, Guaman Poma has depicted a “suntor uaci,” which is often described as round. Pedro Pizarro describes two such buildings in relation to Q’asana (Pizarro [1571] 1986:161). E. George Squier recorded and sketched a “sondor huaci” at Azángaro in the south highland of Peru near Puno (Squier 1877:392–394), and a round building can still be seen at Urco, near Yucay in the Urubamba valley east of Cuzco (fig. 12.7). QUENCO WASI

Again, in the same illustration (fig. 12.5), Guaman Poma depicts yet another building, a “quenco uaci,” which fits none of the three types mentioned above, but bears an uncanny resemblance to a presumedly Inka vessel in the form of a building (fig. 12.8). The authors are not aware of any extant Inka building that matches Guaman Poma’s drawing. However, it represents another example of the diversity of Inka architectural forms.

Figure 12.6. Plan of Pilco Kayma. (Redrawn by Jean-Pierre Protzen from Bauer and Stanish 2001:169, map 7.4)

STOREHOUSES

In the background of Guaman Poma’s illustration are “churacona uasi,” that is, warehouses (churaccuna huaci, González Holguín [1608] 1952:122). Today storehouses are better known by the name qollqa. Storage facilities played an important role in the Inka conquest and in their administration of the empire. They were critical in providing the supplies needed for vast armies on the move, as well as in the redistribution of goods to people within the empire. Inka storehouses took several different forms. Some were round, with diameters from two to six meters, while others were rectangular in plan, some with a single room and others divided into two and more chambers. What characterizes these storage buildings is the small, window-sized opening placed near the ground for access (Morris 1977:138). Another type of storage building, found mainly in the Cuzco area, is about five meters wide and from twenty-five to forty meters long. It has a narrow corridor along the front and a raised bench at the back to hold the stored goods (Protzen 1993:115–119). Considering the great diversity of things that the Inka’s stored—clothing, foods, and finely worked metal objects—it is not surprising that

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Figure 12.7. A possible “suntor uaci” at Urco in the Urubamba valley. (Photo Jean-Pierre Protzen)

they would have devised a diversity of storage structures, each likely addressing the specific conditions needed to store different goods. Building Functions Besides form, another way to approach Inka buildings is to look at them in terms of function. As seen above, the same form of building may have been a simple dwelling in one context and a temple in another. As Craig Morris once wrote:

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Figure 12.8. A ceramic vessel and architectural model that may depict a “quenco wasi.” MNAAH Collection. (Ministerio de Cultura—Museo Nacional de Arqueología, Antropología e Historia del Perú)

Basically the investigation of function involves some sort of analogy with ethnographically and historically known cultures. And lacking any widely applicable understanding of the function of culturally produced material forms, we frequently rely on common sense and rather post-hoc interpretations of materials so far removed from the present that there is no source of direct evidence of its use. (Morris 1971:135–136)

A combination of archeological excavation with historical evidence certainly helps in identifying the function of a building, but the results may not be unequivocal. For example, there are many references to aqllawasi, the convents of mamaconas, or Chosen Women (aka “virgins of the Sun”), in the early Spanish documents, but they do not provide many details that we could match up with architectural remains. Only some of the outer walls remain of Hatuncancha, the recognized aqlla­wasi in Cuzco. Garcilaso de la Vega, who states that he had actually seen the aqllawasi sometime before 1570, reports that one of the exceptional features of this building was the narrow corridor that ran the length of the building and gave access to numerous rooms on either side. At the end of the corridor there was a room for the virgins of the Sun that nobody else could enter ([1604: bk. 4, chap. 2] 1976:177).

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It seems to be well established that among the duties of the Chosen Women was the production of fine textiles and of chicha, maize beer. Based on his finds in a specific compound at Huánuco Pampa—significant quantities of weaving implements and sherds of large ceramic vessels—Morris cautiously proposed that this compound was an aqllawasi (Morris and Thompson 1985:70–71). He thought that the tight control on access to the compound further supported his hypothesis. Except perhaps for its multitude of rooms, this compound at Huánuco Pampa bears little resemblance to Garcilaso’s description. Max Uhle, using old documents (among them a letter of November 1533 from Hernando Pizarro to the Royal Audiencia of Santo Domingo) and local tradition, situated a convent at Pachacamac that is today simply known as the Mamacona3 (1903:97–101 [chaps. 22–23]). Uhle’s plan of the Mamacona bears even less resemblance to Garcilaso’s description and is quite different from the Huánuco Pampa compound. Other researchers have pointed at buildings or building groups as potential aqllawasi at sites such as Pumpu, Machu Picchu, the Island of Coati, and Raqchi. The respective plans show little similarity to the compound identified by Morris, nor even to each other. It may be worth noting, however, that the plan of the purported aqllawasi at Pumpu most closely matches Garcilaso’s description. The difficulty encountered in identifying the function of a building or a complex of buildings remains a critical issue in the study of Inka architecture. Use of Color Colors have been detected on many Inka buildings. The most prominent example, because it is the best preserved, is Tambo Colorado, an Inka installation on the south coast of Peru. There the walls are painted in white, red, and yellow bands of different width and in a variety of combinations (fig. 12.9). Also at Tambo Colorado a pattern of repeated triangles, later painted over, adorned the walls of a particular space. This pattern recalls designs decorating Inka pottery. There is ample evidence in the chronicles that colors were not mere ornamentation but carried symbolic meaning for the Inka. Insignia of different stripes and colors identified the people from different provinces. Similar insignia established people’s rank in the Inka hierarchy. What meaning did the colors on buildings

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convey? Uhle may have been the first to argue that the colors represented a code that may have given clues to who inhabited the various spaces. Morris went a step further, arguing that the color code at Tambo Colorado helped summarize, communicate, emphasize certain information and principles to assembled groups. . . . In evoking the structure and practices of interactions, the signs helped create and reinforce the upper levels of political organization of the imperial Inka state. (Morris 2005)

Both Uhle and Morris proposed an interpretation of the color code (Protzen 2006:28–32). Their interpretations, however, are only tentative and purely speculative, since our knowledge of what the different colors and color combinations meant to the Inka is still very limited.

Construction Technology Walls Inka architecture is often equated with the amazing cutstone masonry found in many buildings (fig. 12.10). This masonry—of sometimes very large stones, assembled without mortar and with a fit so tight that, as the saying goes, one cannot insert the blade of a knife into the joints—indeed testifies to the remarkable craftsmanship of the Inka builders, who did not have iron tools. Remarkable as this masonry is, to reduce Inka architecture to buildings of cut-stone masonry is to disregard the range of variation and subtle differences that so enrich this artform. Inka buildings are built in a variety of materials: some are made of uncut fieldstones assembled with clay

Figure 12.9. Color bands on wall at Tambo Colorado. (Photo Jean-Pierre Protzen)

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mortar; others are built with adobes; and many structures, even high-prestige ones, show a mixture of construction methods. The temple at Raqchi near Cuzco (fig. 12.11) is a good example of the combination of fine cut-stone masonry and adobe construction.

Figure 12.10. Tightly fitted cut-stone masonry at Ollantay­tambo. (Photo Jean-Pierre Protzen)

Stone By far the most common method of construction was to build walls with fieldstones held together by clay mortar, a type often referred to in the literature as pirca, which simply means “wall” in Quechua. For this kind of construction the Inka used locally available stones. In contrast, for their fine cut-stone masonry the Inka often went out of their way to find stones with the desired quality, texture, and color. Most of the andesite used for the prestige buildings in Cuzco, such as the Coricancha, come from either Rumiqolca, some 35 kilometers southwest of Cuzco, or Huacoto, on a mountainside above San Jerónimo, a suburb of Cuzco. At Ollantaytambo, the distinctly pinkish-red rhyolite of the Sun Temple comes from a quarry high up on a mountain across the river from the site (Protzen 1993). At Chinchero, the fine gray andesite came from atop the steep and rugged Antakillka (Nair 2003:287). For the Inka, it was important to choose the best material for their building, as well as the one that had the greatest meaning. In the Andes, special stones were often associated with sacredness, and thus by using these stones in their

Figure 12.11. Cut-stone masonry topped with adobes at Raqchi. (Photo Stella Nair)

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settlements and buildings, the Inkas gave more meaning to their built environments (Dean 2010). The stones for the fitted masonry were roughly shaped in the quarries with hammer-stones. The biggest stones, which might weigh up to a hundred metric tons, were dragged along a prepared roadbed; smaller stones were likely carried on litters. Onsite, the stones were further worked, again with hammer-stones, and fitted to each other in a trial-and-error fashion (Protzen 1985, 2004). To solve the problem of how very big stones, which could not easily be set in place and removed to test the fit, were put together, various methods of “scribing” have been proposed (Lee 2010). In this method the shape of one stone is copied onto the one it is to be fitted to with either a stick or a string (fig. 12.12). Plausible as this technique is, no evidence has yet surfaced to support the hypothesis. Adobe As seen before, many buildings, be they of cut-stone or fieldstone masonry, had upper parts, such as walls and gables, built of adobes. The Inka adobes in the Andean highlands were hand-shaped and often reinforced with vegetal fibers, ichu grass (Jarava ichu) in particular. In contrast, at Tambo Colorado on the Pacific coast, the Inka manufactured their adobes with framelike molds and without any reinforcement. The use of molds for the fabrication of adobes has its precedent on the northern coastal area of Peru, where at El Brujo, for example, frames made of reeds have left their marks on the bricks. The use of molds is understood to have advantages over the older technique of shaping the adobes by hand: it is more efficient and standardizes the product. Most surprisingly, as Uhle has already noted for Tambo Colorado, “innumerable are the sizes of adobes used. No rule exists in this matter” (Uhle 2005:14). The only explanation for the variation in dimensions we have is that the Inka employed many labor gangs to fabricate bricks, each of which may have had its own mold size. In the construction of the site the bricks of the various gangs simply got mixed up.

Tapia Tapia, or rammed-earth construction, is a technique that was already widely used on the southern coast of Peru in pre-Inka times. There is no convincing evidence that the Inka ever adopted tapia as a common construc-

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Figure 12.12. A method of scribing, as postulated by Vincent Lee. (From Lee 2010:6, fig. 1)

tion technique after they had conquered this area. At Tambo Colorado some adobe walls are topped with latticework. One would think that latticework would be easiest to build with bricks, but a closer examination revealed that it was carved out of a tapia addition. Latticework is not one of the standard features of Inka architecture. In the case of Tambo Colorado it is an adaptation of a coastal, if not local, practice (fig. 12.13). Thus, in construction and materials, as in design, the Inka adapted state practices to local contexts. Roofs The Inka covered their buildings with hip, gable, and occasionally shed roofs. Judging from remaining gables, the roofs were very steep, around 60 degrees. No original Inka roofs have survived. Our understanding of Inka roof structures therefore relies on early Spanish reports and ethnographic information. This has resulted in some conflicting interpretations of Inka roofs. For example, François Bouchard proposed that the main roof structure consisted of tripods set onto the outside walls, over which purlins were attached (Bouchard 1983). Lee, elaborating on Bouchard, attaches to the purlins a matt and a lath, onto which a thick layer of thatch made of ichu grass is mounted (Lee 1988). Lee’s proposal closely matches a mid-seventeenth-century description of Inka roofs by Bernabé Cobo: Sobre las vigas ó varas atan y tejen con cuerdas y ramales delgados un zarzo de cañas ó de varillas y rama, sobre cual,

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Figure 12.13. Latticework carved out of a tapia wall. (Photo Jean-Pierre Protzen)

En lugar de teja, ponen cantidad de hicho; y cubríanlas antiguamente con tanta cantidad deste hicho, que he visto casas de estas antiguas, cuya cubierta tiene de grueso más de dos codos. ([1653: bk. 14, chap. 3] 1964:241–242) (Over the beams or purlins they attach and weave a wattle of reeds or wands and twigs with ropes and thin branches, over which, in place of roof tiles, they put a lot of hicho [Jarava ichu]; and in the old days they covered them with so much of this hicho, that I have seen such old houses the covering of which had a thickness of more than two cubits.) (Translation by Protzen)

These big roofs were impressive constructions and often dwarfed the Inka walls that supported them. The steep gable or hip roofs that were common in the highlands not only provided shelter during the intense rainy season, but also represented a distinctive visual element of Inka architecture. This is a reminder that one of the central aspects of Inka architecture, the roof, has since been completely lost to us.

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Terraces The construction of agricultural terraces, or andenes, is an Andean tradition that predates the Inka, yet the Inka dramatically expanded the practice and refined the construction. Investigations of the terraces show that the retaining walls were backfilled with very distinct materials: at bottom there was a layer of coarse stones and clay, and this was topped off with a layer of fine topsoil. There is evidence that the topsoil often was imported from faraway places. As Robin Donkin has written, the backfilling of the terraces “allowed the nature of the fill, and thus the water balance, to be controlled” (Donkin 1979:33). The permeability of the retaining walls allowed the irrigation water to percolate from terrace to terrace. In addition, the Inka often built overflow channels into the terrace walls, further managing the flow of water.

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Suspension Bridges As mentioned above, at the time of the Spanish conquest suspension bridges were unknown in the Old World. However, the Inkas built them throughout the Andes. Perhaps the most famous suspension bridge was the one across the Apurimac River. Squier, who in the 1860s crossed that bridge, wrote, “I shall never forget it, even if it were not associated with circumstances which, for one time, gave me much uneasiness and pain” (Squier 1877:545–546). The Inka suspension bridges were built with cables woven together from thinner ropes made of whites (a pliant twig or bough) or fibers. Three to five cables formed the floor, or deck, and two more cables served as handrails. As illustrated by the reconstruction of the Queshuachaca (Quechua bridge) at Huinchiri, the cables were drawn across the chasm they were to span by ropes and anchored to massive stone abutments. The floor cables were woven together and then covered with twigs attached to the floor. Thinner ropes connected the floor with the handrail to form parapets (fig. 12.14). These bridges were rather ephemeral, requiring incessant maintenance and reconstruction every two to three years. Thus, the bridge Squier traversed was not an original Inka bridge but one that had been reconstructed in the traditional way many, many times. Settlements

thus catching off guard anyone who did not have official permission to travel to Thupa Inka’s estate at Chinchero (Nair 2009:121–122). Or a tampu could be very large, designed to accommodate the traveling armies as they moved, ready to conquer new territories or repress revolt, and llama trains transporting goods from one region to another. Reading Cobo, one gets the impression that tampu referred not to a settlement type, but rather to a building type that could be found in provincial centers as well as a day’s journey apart along the roadways in uninhabited places. He describes tampu simply as a galpón (Cobo [1653: bk. 12, chap. 32] 1964:130). The term galpón was used in the Colonial period to describe any large building without any subdivisions, that is, a type 1 building. In sum, the Inka term tampu referred to a broad category for a type of site that shifted in shape and form in accordance with the specifics of time and site constraints. As John Hyslop wrote, “There were probably no two identical tampu anywhere in the Inka Empire” (1983:275). Administrative Centers The colonial sources also suggest that administrative centers were a common site type built across the Inka Empire. One reason that the Inkas were able to expand their empire so quickly, and hold down those areas for extended periods of time, is the fact that the Inka were

The Inka built a variety of settlements throughout the lands they conquered. These can be grouped in several general categories, such as tampus (way stations), administrative centers, royal estates, and religious sanctuaries.

Tampus Along their roads the Inka built tampus, or way stations. These were standard settlement types that were spaced roughly a day’s travel apart. Who exactly waited there varied greatly, thus affecting the design and layout of the tampus. For example, a way station could be very small, made to accommodate a passing messenger (chaski) on his way to deliver an official communication. Or the tampu could be designed to monitor travelers passing on the road; for example, at Peccacchu, a tampu is located beyond a sharp curve in the road,

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Figure 12.14. Reconstruction of an Inkatype suspension bridge (Queshuachaca). (Photo courtesy Michael Rodman)

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highly skilled administrators who could keep track of new households in the empire and the specific goods and labors they produced. But to effectively administer the empire, the Inka, as they expanded, built centers from which they could oversee their new lands. Huánuco Pampa, a key administrative city to the north of Cuzco, is one of the few of this settlement type that have been carefully studied (Morris and Thompson 1985; see chapter 6, by Covey). If we take Huánuco Pampa as a representative sample, we can say that administrative centers were built around a large plaza and had a ceremonial platform, buildings for festivities and travelers, a palace for the Inka, a monastery of the Chosen Women, and numerous other quarters. These installations correspond roughly to a list given by Bernabé Cobo concerning administrative centers’ “palacios reales de rica fabrica [royal palaces richly adorned], templo magnífico del sol [magnificent temple of the Sun], . . . monasterio de mamaconas [monastery of the Chosen Ones); . . . tambo Real [royal tampu]” (Cobo [1653: bk. 12, chap. 25] 1964:114) and match more or less the installations found at other known administrative centers, such as Pumpu. These settlements, located throughout the provinces, most likely varied in form and size, as did tampus, given that we know that the Inka appear to have adjusted their rule according to the specific conditions of each province. Unfortunately, many of these site types remain largely unstudied, leaving another important gap in our understanding of Inka architecture and its adaptation to local circumstances. Royal Estates By contrast, Inka royal estates are very well studied. Studies conducted on the estates of Pachacuti, such as Ollantaytambo (Protzen 1993) and Machu Picchu (Valencia and Gibaja 1992), of Thupa Inka at Chinchero (Alcina Franch 1976; Nair 2003, forthcoming), and of Huayna Capac at Quispiguanca (Niles 1999) have revealed how diverse Inka royal estates were. Not only did they reflect the issues of the patron, both personal and political, but they also reveal shifting issues of the Inka state across time. These estates, concentrated in the highlands, have provided rich insights into how Inka architecture and landscape were crafted and manipulated to symbolize Inka authority, in particular that of elite rulers. The Inkas inserted their presence in the landscape by mark-

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ing sacred spaces (i.e., carving stones or huacas), making unproductive lands fertile (i.e., building distinctive terraces), and crafting an architecture that seemed to emerge seamlessly from the sacred landscape (i.e., incorporating rock outcrops in their architecture and blurring the line between the natural and the humanmade, as seen in the Torreon at Machu Picchu). We are reminded again of how a single settlement type, in this case the royal estate, could house multiple functions, whether administrative, religious, or personal. Hence, while scholars like to conceive of Inka settlements as site types, we must always remember that Inka settlements were inherently flexible and thus could incorporate multiple functions, as necessary in a specific place and time, in order to best serve the growing needs of the Inka state. Sanctuaries For the Inka, sacredness could be found in special places and objects, as well as associated with distinct people and activities. The Inka built a variety of structures and complexes that could be called “sanctuaries.” These places might be separate settlements, such as at Raqchi, south of Cuzco; exclusive buildings set within a sacred geography, such as on the Island of the Sun; or Inka structures added to a larger (pan-Andean) sacred center, such as Pachacamac. All of these are described by the colonial sources as major Inka sanctuaries. But the Inkas also had urban sanctuaries, such as the Coricancha in Cuzco, as well as remote, high-altitude ones, such as platforms from which sacred offerings to the apus (sacred mountains) were made. It is this variability in settlement form and activity, compounded by the limited scholarship on the topic, that has resulted in our inadequate understanding of Inka sanctuaries. Landscape Pachamama, Mother Earth, was highly venerated by the Inka. Thus, to understand Inka architecture is to return to the landscape, where Inka architecture both begins and ends. Many features of the landscape—mountains, lakes, waterfalls, rivers, rock formations, etc.—were sacred to the Inka. Their architecture and site layouts reflect the Inka respect for and worship of Mother Earth in a variety of ways.

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Inclusion Often the Inka oriented their architecture and sites around sacred features in the landscape. For example, the central window of the so-called Temple of Three Windows at Machu Picchu perfectly frames the top of Putucusi, a mountain across the river on which there is a ceremonial platform (fig. 12.15) ( Julien 1990). Another, even more prominent illustration, also at Machu Picchu, is the pair of buildings framing a rock that mimics Yanantin, the mountain in the background (fig. 12.16). Thus the Inkas manipulated vision as one way in which they could bring the sacred natural world into their settlements (Reinhard 2007). Adaptation It is the relationship to the landscape that drove much of Inka design, and allowed for creative expressions that addressed local contexts. For example, rather than impose their standard rectangular building design, the Inka could adapt their design to the particular topography of a site, such as seen in the buildings at Phuyupatamarka, which are molded to the natural rock and seem to emerge from it (fig. 12.17). What holds for the individual buildings also holds for the site layout and the connection between the different groups of houses, all of which are adapted to the terrain.

Figure 12.15. View of Putucusi through center window of the Temple of Three Windows at Machu Picchu. (Photo Jean-Pierre Protzen)

Transformation It is their ability to work with the landscape and to embrace variation within their otherwise standardized architectural practices that accounts for the extensive transformation that the Andes underwent during imperial Inka rule. While Inka architecture is noted for its distinctive forms that seem to work with the Andean environment, the resulting image often belies the extensive transformation that created that final vision. For example, in the construction of agricultural terraces, the Inka transformed the landscape at enormous scales. The construction of terraces often required massive movements of earth thousands of cubic meters in volume. Yet as massive as these transformations were, the result was not the destruction of the landscape but rather its enhancement; the terraces accentuate the topography and present a new dimension as markers in the landscape (fig. 12.18).

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Figure 12.16. “Sacred Rock” at Machu Picchu, recalling Yanantin, the mountain in the background, and framed by two buildings. (Photo Jean-Pierre Protzen)

Figure 12.17. Building and settlement forms adapted to terrain at Phuyupatamarka. (Photo Jean-Pierre Protzen)

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Notes

1. The dates used here are based on John Rowe’s chronology (1945). However, this chronology has been challenged, in favor of an earlier start of the expansion of the empire, by Ake Wedin (1963) and more recently by Catherine Julien (2008). See also chapter 5, by Bauer and Smit, in this volume. 2. The maka and urpu are two of the distinctive ceramic vessel types made by the Inka. Both have the unusual pointed bottom, but the maka has a long neck and the urpu has a wide opening at the top. For a more detailed description of these and other Inka vessels, see Bray 2003:3–28. 3. The Mamacona at Pachacamac has since been entirely rebuilt under the direction of Julio Tello. Figure 12.18. “Transformed” landscape at Pisac. (Photo JeanPierre Protzen)

Conclusion In the end, the Inka, using a highly sophisticated technology, developed a distinctive architecture that proclaimed their presence across an immense and diverse landscape. In many ways, their architecture accurately symbolized the Inka conquest of the Andes, by revealing both Inka adaptability to local contexts and their ability to radically transform everything that lay within their reach. We now have a much better understanding of Inka architectural practices, especially in the Inka heartland, but many aspects of Inka architecture and landscape transformation need further study. As mentioned above, our understanding of bridge construction, the raising and fitting of very large stones, and the organization and layout of religious sanctuaries, tampus, and Inka administrative centers is still lacking. Exploring the intricate ways that Inka architecture changed across space and time, and the ways they manipulated local forms and materials, can greatly add to what we know about Inka adaptations to local contexts and, thus, what made their empire such as success.

Bibliography Alcina Franch, José

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Arqueología de Chinchero: La arquitectura. Madrid: Magerit.

Bauer, Brian S., and Charles Stanish

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Ritual and Pilgrimage in the Ancient Andes. Austin: University of Texas Press.

Bouchard, François

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Contribution à l’étude de l’architecture inca: Etablissements de la vallée du Rio Vilcanota–Urubamba. Cahiers d’Archéologie et d’Ethnologie d’Amérique du Sud. Paris: Maison des Sciences de l’Homme.

Bray, Tamara L.

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“Inka Pottery as Culinary Equipment: Food, Feasting, and Gender in Imperial State Design.” Latin American Antiquity 14:3–28.

Cobo, Bernabé

(1653) 1964  Historia del Nuevo Mundo. Ed. P. Francisco Mateos. BAE 91–92. Madrid: Atlas. Dean, Carolyn

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A Culture of Stone: Inka Perspectives on Rock. Durham: Duke University Press.

Donkin, R. A.

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Agricultural Terracing in the Aboriginal New World. Viking Fund Publications in Anthropology 56. Tucson: University of Arizona Press.

Garcilaso de la Vega, el Inca

(1604) 1976  Comentarios reales de los Incas. Ed. Aurelio Miró Quesada. Caracas: Bibliotheca Ayacucho. Gasparini, Graziano, and Luise Margolies

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Inca Architecture. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

González Holguín, Diego

(1608) 1952  Vocabulario de la lengua general de todo el Peru llamada lengua Qquichua o del Inca. Ed. Raúl Porras Barrenechea. Lima: Santa Marta. Guaman Poma de Ayala, Felipe

(1615) 1980  El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno. Ed. John V. Murra and Rolena Adorno. Trans. Jorge L. Urioste. Mexico: Siglo Veintiuno.

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reinos del Perú. Ed. Guillermo Lohmann Villena. Lima: PUCP.

Humboldt, Alexander von

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Sites des cordillères et monumens des peuples indigènes de l’Amérique. Paris: Guérin.

Hyslop, John

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The Inca Road System. New York: Academic.

Julien, Catherine

1990 “La metafora de la montaña.” Humbolt 100:84–89. 2008 “On the Beginning of the Late Horizon.” Ñawpa Pacha 29:163–177. Lee, Vincent R.

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The Lost Half of Inca Architecture. Wilson, WY: published by the author. “The Building of Sacsawaman Revisited: Construction Details of ‘Scribing and Coping.’” N.p.: Sixpac Manco.

Protzen, Jean-Pierre

“Inca Quarrying and Stonecutting.” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 44:161–182. 1993 Inca Architecture and Construction at Ollantaytambo. New York: Oxford University Press. 2004 “The Fortress of Saqsawaman: Was It Ever Finished?” Ñawpa Pacha 25–27 [1987–1989]: 49–60. 2006 “Max Uhle and Tambo Colorado a Century Later.” Ñawpa Pacha 28:11–40. 1985

Pulgar Vidal, Javier

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Geografía del Perú: Las ocho regiones naturales del Perú. Lima: Universo.

McEwan, Gordon, and Arminda Gibaja

Reinhard, Johan

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2007 Machu Picchu: Exploring an Ancient Sacred Center. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, University of California.

“New Radiocarbon Data for Dating the Beginning of the Inca Imperial Expansion” (under review).

Morris, Craig

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“The Identification of Function in Inca Architecture and Ceramics.” Revista del Museo Nacional 37:135–144. “An Architectural Color Code and the Sociopolitical Hierarchy of an Inca Imperial City.” Manuscript.

Morris, Craig, and Donald Thompson

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Huánuco Pampa: An Inca City and Its Hinterland. London: Thames and Hudson.

Nair, Stella

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“Of Remembrance and Forgetting: The Architecture of Chinchero, Peru, from Thupa’ Inka to the Spanish Occupation.” PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley. 2009 “Inca Architecture and the Conquest of the Countryside.” In Architecture–Design Methods–Inca Structures, ed. Hans and Johanna Dehlinger, 114–125. Kassel: Kassel University Press. Forthcoming  At Home with the Sapa Inca: Architecture, Space, and Legacy at Chinchero. Austin: University of Texas Press.

Rowe, John H.

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Squier, E. George

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(1571) 1986  Relación del descubrimiento y conquista de los

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Pachacamac: Report of the William Pepper, M.D., LL.D., Peruvian Expedition of 1896, by Dr. Max Uhle. Lima: Department of Archaeology, University of Pennsylvania. Explorations in the Valley of Pisco: Max Uhle’s Reports to Phoebe Apperson Hearst, August 1901 to January 1902. Ed. Jean-Pierre Protzen and David Harris. Contribution of the University of California Archaeological Research Facility 63. Berkeley: University of California.

Valencia Zegarra, Alfredo, and Arminda Gibaja Oviedo

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“Inca Architecture and the Sacred Landscape.” In The Ancient Americas: Art from Sacred Landscapes, ed. Richard F. Townsend, 347–357. Chicago: Art Institute. 1999 The Shape of Inca History. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press. 2004 “The Nature of Inca Royal Estates.” In Machu Picchu: Unveiling the Mystery of the Incas, ed. Richard L. Burger and Lucy Salazar, 49–68. New Haven: Yale University Press.

“Absolute Chronology in the Andean Area.” American Antiquity 10:265–284.

Machu Picchu: La investigación y conservación del monument arqueológico después de Hiram Bingham. Cuzco: Municipalidad de Cuzco.

Wedin, Ake

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La cronología de la historia incaica: Estudio critico. Madrid: Insula.

Wright, Kenneth

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Machu Picchu: A Civil Engineering Marvel. Reston, VA: American Society of Civil Engineers.

Wright, Kenneth, Gordon McEwan, and Ruth Wright

2006 Tipon: Water Engineering Masterpiece of the Inca Empire. Reston, VA: American Society of Civil Engineers.

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C H A P T E R 13

Considering Inka Royal Estates Architecture, Economy, History Susan A. Niles

Inka royal estates present a vision of the perfect Inka landscape: they are productive, they are useful, they are beautiful; they may incorporate lakes, parks, palaces, or fields. Many had towns to house a resident population of subject people working to sustain the Inka who had conquered their homeland. Estates include places for devotion and for such elite recreational activities as hunting, raising birds, and gardening. They were places created with little regard to what is practical: the construction of estates might have required builders to move a river from one side of the valley to another, or to build terraces on seemingly intractable slopes. Above all, estates were places built for eternity. They were places where the mummies of kings could visit and where the kings’ descendants could thrive. Fortunately for the modern visitor, many of these estates can be visited today, and we have the opportunity to appreciate them as beautiful places in their own right and as examples of how the Inkas gave form to their values and their view of themselves in the world. In this essay I consider why we call some Inka properties “royal estates” and I explore the kinds of archaeological and documentary evidence by which we identify these estates. Using the specific example of Machu Picchu, I suggest how we may use a range of data—drawn from historical documents, architecture, and physical and cultural remains—to better understand the reasons for their construction and the way that they were built and maintained. At the same time, I hope to demonstrate the importance of estates to answering questions more broadly about the Inkas, such as how they employed strategies to conquer new regions and to organize conquered peoples, how they affirmed the status of their own ethnic group relative to those peoples, and how the narratives that reported these deeds influenced their architectural creations.

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What Is an Inka Royal Estate? When we refer to some Inka properties as “royal estates,” we are using a metaphor that is familiar to us and that was employed by many of the sixteenth-century European writers to describe the leaders of the Inka Empire. The Inkas considered themselves to be an ethnic group different from and superior to others in the Andes, and their claim of mythical descent from an ancestor they called Manco Capac sustained this belief. Their descent gave them capac essence—we might draw an analogy to royal blood—that made them Inkas and gave them both the power and the right to rule (see Julien 2000). People who carried capac essence were organized into lineages (panacas), each of which had a male ancestor whose mummy was venerated by his descendants. Members of the panaca acted in this ancestor’s name (to make decisions and manage business) and promoted his reputation (hence advancing their own fortunes) through performing his history. The founding of the panaca as a corporate group was a duty of each ruling Inka. A second duty was the founding of an estate. The estates developed by an Inka were used to maintain him and his panaca in his lifetime and to sustain his cult and support his descendants after he became a mummy. Estates were very productive, and savvy management by the estate’s overseer might include not only the decisions about agricultural production, but also the formation of strategic alliances and management of the ancestor’s reputation in ways that would result in the award of more lands or more workers for that land. At the time the Inkas ruled the Andes, most land would have been held by communities, which, much as the Inkas did for Cuzco, made claims to property on the basis of the deeds of their ancestors. It is probable that land was owned inalienably by the com-

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Figure 13.1. Map of the Vilcanota/Urubamba and Huatanay valleys, including the principal estates mentioned in this chapter. (Redrawn from Monuments of the Incas, John Hemming and Ed Ranney [Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1982].

munity (ayllu—a social group whose members were related to one another through descent from a real or fictional common founding ancestor), rather than by individuals, and that decisions on the use of the community’s lands by its members were made by traditional authorities in the villages. Estates are a seeming exception to that pattern: they were claimed by an individual and worked privately for his benefit; they could be expanded or usurped by later Inkas. However, we might also view estates as much like traditional Andean lands: they were managed by a panaca (as a kin-based group, members shared both the distant mythical ancestor that gave them capac and the proximal male ancestor that gave their family a name); use rights were granted by a senior male member of the panaca (in theory, the Inka, or the senior male acting in his name when he was mummified); and benefit accrued to the panaca members, among others.

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Without panaca land there would have been no place for members of the royal families to live and nothing to provide for their support. At least some of the work on estates was done by laborers brought from distant parts of the empire as mitimaes (permanently transplanted colonists) to work as farmers (chacracamayos) or to carry out other activities. They and their descendants remained in the service of the estate’s owner (they held the status of yanacuna [hereditary retainer]), with their work overseen by ethnic Inkas. Thus the social structure of estates provided a microcosm of the empire, with Inka control over other populations (see Rowe 1982 for a discussion of these and other statuses). The Inkas developed estates in and around Cuzco, their capital city, in places that they considered useful for the production of goods that they needed, in places they considered to be pleasant, and in places that were of symbolic importance to them or to the people who

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CONSIDERING INKA ROYAL ESTATES  235

had lived in that area prior to the Inkas’ usurpation of the land. Estates produced varied commodities, including maize, hot peppers, coca, gold, salt, and wood. For example, coca leaf, which was required for funerary rituals and other offerings, came from plants that did not grow near Cuzco, so it is not surprising that some royal holdings were in the warm and humid lands where coca fields flourished. There were, additionally, fields and royal developments in the Huatanay valley on the outskirts of Cuzco (see, e.g., Niles 1987 for an analysis of one such site). It is likely that these latter holdings were the kinds of places developed under Pachacuti’s aegis as he celebrated a victory over an invading army (the Chancas; cf. chapter 5, by Bauer and Smit) and con­ solidated his alliance with the leaders who had helped him in that battle. All of the Inka rulers, from Viracocha Inka through Huascar, had estates in the Urubamba valley, to Cuzco’s north (fig. 13.1 and table 13.1). In addition to the importance of these properties in commemorating significant military campaigns (especially in the case of Pachacuti’s developments; see Rowe 1990), they were located in a valley much warmer and wetter than the Inkas’ capital. With the creation of terracing and irrigation works, the estates in the Urubamba valley became especially good places to grow maize, a commodity that was enjoyed as a food and in the form of beer. We do not have contemporary production figures for estate lands, but we have indirect evidence that the amount of goods produced was substantial. For example, terracing systems associated with an estate of Huayna Capac (one of the last Inka kings) at Yucay in the Urubamba valley north of Cuzco included a massive set of terraces (Niles 1999:208–231), shown in figure 13.2. The largest field was more than seventy thousand square meters in area, and the system was provided with irrigation by means of a deep canal that bisected an access road. The economic importance of such fields is reinforced by the presence of storehouse complexes on high, and easily monitored, slopes overlooking estate lands (Niles and Batson 1999). For example, relatively small groups of long rectangular storehouses are built on Ollantaytambo’s sheer cliff faces, overlooking palaces built by the early imperial ruler Pachacuti (grandfather of Huayna Capac), and also used by the post-conquest ruler Manco Inka, as he fought the Spaniards (see Protzen 1993) (fig. 13.3). Massive storage compounds associated with Huayna Capac’s and Topa

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Inka’s estates show a similar design but scaled up to, in the largest case, a footprint of around 65 × 3.4 meters (as seen in fig. 13.4). The sheer size and number of these storehouses and others reminds us of the importance of estates to the royal economy (Niles and Batson 1999, and see Huaycochea Núñez de la Torre 1994). In addition to developing lands to support their entertainment and ritual obligations, estate owners commissioned palaces for their pleasure during their lifetime and, as founders of a panaca, also made provisions to house their mummy (see, e.g., Betanzos [1551– 1557: pt. 2, chap. 1] 1996:190). Although we have documentary evidence for the palaces, we are not able to identify the royal residences with certainty. That said, a good case can be made that the complex at Machu Picchu that Bingham identified as the “King’s Group” was, in fact, associated with the royal denizen (Salazar 2004:30–31). The general area of Huayna Capac’s palace, Quispiguanca, situated on the north side of the modern town of Urubamba, near its cemetery, can be identified on his estate lands, but the specific structure in which he may have spent time cannot (Niles 1999). As lavish as these developments were, Inka kings probably spent relatively little time at their country palaces. For example, we are told regarding Topa Inka’s (father of Huayna Capac) palace at Chinchero that “[t]he Inca and the rest of the lords had some of their women in these houses, where the Inca and lords went to relax during the months and at the times they saw fit” (Betanzos [1551–1557: pt. 1, chap. 38] 1996:159). Similarly, we hear that Huayna Capac “rested” at his palace in Yucay following a three-year war and the completion of mourning rites for his dead mother (Betanzos [1551– 1557: pt. 1, chap. 44] 1996:172–173); after he rested he

Figure 13.2. Terraces at Yucay, part of Huayna Capac’s estate. (Photo by Susan A. Niles)

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Figure 13.3. Storehouse complex at Ollantaytambo. (Photo by Susan A. Niles)

Figure 13.4. Overview of a storehouse complex at Machu Collca, associated with Topa Inca’s estate at Chinchero. (Photo by Susan A. Niles)

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Table 13.1. Selected Royal Estates of Inka Rulers Ruler

Approximate Date of Rule

Panaca

Estate

Viracocha Inka

Until 1438

Socso Ayllu

Caquia Xaquixahuana

Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui

1438–1476

Iñaca Panaca

Pisac Ollantaytambo Machu Picchu

Topa Inka

1476–1495

Capac Ayllu

Chinchero Tambokancha-Tumibamba?

Huayna Capac

1498–1527

Tomebamba Panaca

Yucay/Urubamba

Huascar Inka

1528–1532

Huascar Panaca

Huascar (Muina) Calca

went on a hunting expedition (Betanzos [1551–1557: pt. 1, chap. 45] 1996:175). We have no other report that he spent time on his lavish estate until he returned as a mummy. Only Viracocha Inka is said to have lived continuously at his estate at Caquia Xaquixahuana on a hilltop high above the modern town of Calca, north of Cuzco, though his long residence (perhaps ten years; see Betanzos [1551–1557: pt. 1, chap. 17] 1996:79) resulted from his banishment from Cuzco by his son. Documentary evidence for estates reminds us that the activities that took place on them were remarkably varied. For example, in addition to the palace structure he enjoyed in his lifetime, Huayna Capac’s estate at Yucay included the house to be used for his mummy, a hunting lodge, a lake, a pond devoted to growing reeds used to pierce the ears of young noblemen, terraces, and towns for farmers (Villanueva Urteaga 1970; Niles 1999; Covey 2008). The range of activities that took place on estates makes identifying them solely on the basis of architecture difficult. Further, each estate was commissioned by an Inka king, and thus reflects the aesthetic values and technical skills in place at the time he had it built. That said, we can make some general claims about the architecture of royal estates. Sites that we know to have been royal estates (such as Pisac, Chinchero, Machu Picchu, Yucay, and Ollantaytambo) have varied architectural remains that probably related to the activities of denizens of varying social status. All of these sites include some structures built with such markers of elite construction as smoothly worked stone masonry and multi-jambed doorways, niches, or windows. Some have structures of a form seen only at important Inka sites (e.g., Chinchero and Yucay have open-ended

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great halls), and some include walled precincts (Pisac, Machu Picchu, Yucay, Ollantaytambo). These sites also include elaborately carved or carefully preserved bedrock within the boundaries of the estates. All of these sites are associated with terraces, some of which were surely used for agriculture. How Do We Know about Estates? There are several kinds of sources available to researchers studying Inka estates. The standard Inka histories reported to Spanish chroniclers often identify the palaces each king founded, the places where his panaca lived, and sometimes where the dead ruler’s mummy was housed when the Spaniards took it. A few stories speak specifically about the construction of or residence on estates; for example, Betanzos gives accounts of the construction of the estates at Chinchero and Yucay, as will be discussed. Archaeology also gives insight: some sites have terracing systems or hallmarks of high-end architecture that are typical of estates and that encourage additional research to see which Inka might have built them. Farrington and Zapata, for example, report on an Inka site (Tambokancha-Tumibamba) near Zurite. On the basis of the site’s unusual architecture (towers, curved buildings, and the size of the component structures) as well as its form (they suggest an overall plan that resembles an Inka tumi, or knife), they consider the site to have been associated with royal activities. On the basis of scattered historical references, they posit that it may have been an estate that benefited Capac Ayllu, Topa Inka’s descent group (Farrington and Zapata 2003).

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Finally, we can consider post-conquest legal documents. A number of estates remained intact in the early Colonial period and were claimed by Spanish dignitaries (e.g., the Pizarro brothers took the city palaces and country estates of Huayna Capac, Topa Inka, and Pachacuti), by Inkas with royal status (Rostworowski 1962, 1970; Niles 1999; Covey and Amado Gonzalez 2008, Rowe 1985, 1990; Nair 2003), or by non-Inka claimants (e.g., Francisco Chilche’s claims to estate land; see Niles 1999:121–133 for a discussion). From such sources—often very detailed—we can inventory the major estates of the Inkas. Myth, History, and Estates Just as we can read the history of state expansion in the stories of Inka conquests set down by Spanish chroniclers and in the spread of Inka-style artifacts disinterred by archaeologists, we can read the history of panacas in the development of estates. Inka stories that account for the founding of their dynastic seat in Cuzco tell of their ancestors’ wandering to the foreordained location, their coexistence with local groups occasionally punctuated by skirmishes, and, ultimately, the Inkas’ forceful eviction of these lesser lights and appropriation of the swampy land, which the Inkas drained and sculpted into a splendid city (see, e.g., chapter 5, by Bauer and Smit). These stories talk of changing relationships with local denizens and the dynamic creation of a beautiful and economically productive landscape, reclaimed from the forces of nature and of lesser cultural beings. Such stories are mirrored in the accounts of how estates were created. For example, the valley around Yucay had been pacified by his father (Topa Inka) and grandfather (Pachacuti), but it had not been fully developed for estates; therefore Huayna Capac “had the river moved along the side facing Cuzco, making it stronger and making a bed where it went. Along the path of the river the Inka had hills leveled. Thus he made the valley flat so that it could be planted and harvested” (Betanzos [1551–1557: pt. 2, chap. 43] 1996:170; see fig. 13.5). His actions are practical but also mirror the work of his famous grandfather, Pachacuti, who celebrated a key military victory by draining the sedge-filled marshland of the original Inka city, rechanneling the springs and rivers in order to rebuild Cuzco, and extending the canalization and terracing far down-valley to cre-

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ate good agricultural land (Betanzos [1551–1557: pt. 1, chap. 16] 1996:53–55, 70; and see Sarmiento de Gamboa [1572: chaps. 30, 32] 2007:115, 119–121). The creation of estates, while fundamentally related to private rather than state endeavors, did have a strategic function. Especially in the early years of Inka expansion, personal estates were probably built to mark the conquest of particular ethnic groups (Rowe 1990). Further, the creation of estates was one aspect of the consolidation of the empire. For example, the construction of Pachacuti’s estate at Ollantaytambo involved the sons of an enemy ruler, captured in a hard-fought battle (Sarmiento de Gamboa [1572: chap. 40] 2007:138). When he decided to build Chinchero, seen in figure 13.6, Topa Inka mustered labor from throughout the empire by delegating the request for workers to his henchmen and then through the workers’ indigenous rulers (caciques): [He] ordered the lord orejones to go throughout all the land and in a designated month arrange an assembly of all the caciques from all the land with the number of people the Inca called for in the city of Cuzco. These orejones left, and in the month designated for them, they went together to the city of Cuzco with their men, which they say amounted to twenty thousand. (Betanzos [1551–1557: pt. 1, chap. 38] 1996:159)

Huayna Capac’s reclamation of the bottomlands at Yucay, seen in figure 13.5, required 150,000 laborers (Betanzos [1551–1557: pt. 2, chap. 43] 1996:170). While we are told that these workers came to the jobsite within six months of Huayna Capac’s request, we do not know how long they spent on their project, although, as I have elsewhere suggested, the construction of the western end of the estate was not finished in the thirty or so years between its creation and the Spanish incursion (Niles 1999:227–228). Nonetheless, the massive terraces that were completed required a labor force of two thousand households, moved to Yucay from the provinces. Most had come from Chinchaysuyu (the wealthy northern quarter of the Inka empire) or Collasuyu (the area to the south of Cuzco), but they represented a number of different ethnic groups, including a sizeable group of Cañaris (from the region near modern Cuenca, Ecuador), as well as people who were Soras, Guancabelicas, Quichuas, Luringuancas, and Guaylas (see Niles 1999:126–133 for a fuller discussion of the estate’s social composition). War captives brought to Cuzco from the northern frontier in Huayna Capac’s

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Figure 13.5. View of the lands developed by Huayna Capac at Yucay, including, in the foreground, the river moved to the south side of the valley. (Photo by Susan A. Niles)

Figure 13.6. Part of the terrace system at Chinchero, Topa Inca’s estate. (Photo by Susan A. Niles)

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cortege were among the settlers, including, as Betanzos notes, a dwarf with two dwarf daughters (Betanzos [1551–1557: pt. 2, chap. 1] 1996:190). It is perhaps not surprising that estates merge the personal and the political, for the Inkas’ self-­ aggrandizing histories similarly make political acts— military victories, diplomatic negotiations—part of the personal accounts of a king’s successes. The praiseworthy acts of Inka kings include victories over enemies and over nature, and the construction of estates brings both together. In theory, estates were private lands developed by an individual for his personal use. But they were far from static, and we know that mummified kings could gain property. For example, when he assumed rule, Huayna Capac inventoried the properties that belonged to the principal idols and to his ancestors’ mummies. To his grandfather, Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui, he gave great gifts, a great number of mamacona maidens, as well as many yanacona youths. He ordered them to settle in the valleys near Cuzco and that from there to bring what they cultivated and raised to the house of [Pachacuti] Inca Yupanque. Thus they brought fruit, fresh maize, and birds. These were placed before the image of Inca Yupanque as if he were alive and with the same show of reverence as when he was alive. Moreover, [Huayna Capac] ordered [three groups of conquered peoples] put in the service of this image because they were the first provinces that this lord Inca Yupanque conquered and subjugated in his life. (Betanzos [1551–1557: pt. 1, chap. 41] 1996:167)

Estates could be taken away, as well. Among the scandalous deeds of Huascar (Huayna Capac’s son and a half-brother of Atahualpa, against whom he fought for the control of the Inka Empire at the time of the Spanish arrival) is this: When he became lord, he went out into the square and declared that henceforth the lands of coca and maize production that had been owned by the Sun and the bodies of the dead rulers, including those of his father, Huayna Capac, would be taken from them. All these he took for himself, saying that neither the Sun nor the dead nor his father who was now dead ate. Since they did not eat, he had need of their lands. This action horrified the lords. (Betanzos [1551–1557: pt. 2, chap. 1] 1996:189)

The reaction of other Inka lords suggests that estates

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were considered to be inalienable, though, of course, they could be, and obviously were, taken from their royal owners. Machu Picchu: How to Understand a Royal Estate One of the Inka sites best known to tourists, Machu Picchu (fig. 13.7), is also a good example of how experts use a variety of sources to analyze Inka royal estates. Its location at the end of a spur road on a hilltop relatively poor in resources meant that for nearly four hundred years after the Spanish conquest, the site was little disturbed by outsiders or by its small resident population of farmers. Hiram Bingham and his team documented its standing architecture in photographs of enormous importance in showing details of construction often lost at more accessible sites (Bingham 1913, 1930). Further, the site yielded objects and skeletal remains that, nearly unique among Inka sites so near Cuzco, remained in situ until Bingham’s visit. The recent reanalysis of the remains by archaeologists and by physical anthropologists permits a better understanding of the site (Burger and Salazar 2004; Verano 2003; Miller 2003; Burger, Lee-Thorp, and van der Merwe 2003; also see chapter 4, by Shinoda). At the time of Bingham’s visits to Machu Picchu the original function of the site was a matter of speculation, as it was not identified in the standard histories set down by sixteenth-century Spaniards. Nonetheless, there were scattered sixteenth- and seventeenth-­ century references to a town known as Picchu, which was in the general area of the site. In 1990 John H. Rowe published a transcript and commentary on a sixteenthcentury legal document that convincingly identified Machu Picchu as this Picchu, and confirmed it was part of a royal estate developed by Pachacuti (Rowe 1990). That identification made sense of the architecture on the site. Kendall (1976, 1985), Protzen (1993), Niles (1989, 1999), and others had proposed a more nuanced understanding of Inka architectural style by focusing on buildings attributable to the reigns of particular Inka kings. Stylistically, Machu Picchu looked as though it ought to belong to the handiwork of the early ruler Pachacuti. With the firm identification on the basis of the documents, it was possible to place Machu Picchu on the list of royal estates and to consider its form within the chronological development of Inka style.

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Figure 13.7. Overview of Machu Picchu, seen from the main Inka road to the site. (Photo by Susan A. Niles)

Machu Picchu is in the lower Urubamba valley in a region the Inkas thought to be the entrance to the forested lands of Vilcabamba. It was a region that did not fall under Inka control until the early part of Pachacuti’s reign and was won by force. Prior to taking this region, Pachacuti had fought battles to bring other parts of the Urubamba valley into his domain. Defeating first the Cuyos and later the Tambos, Pachacuti marked each of those conquests with a permanent memorial of his victory: near the Cuyos’ capital he created an estate and a palace, at Pisac; in the old Tambo domain, he created an estate and palace at Ollantaytambo (Rowe 1990:141). The construction of Pisac, in particular, was a further punishment for the Cuyos, as they had been implicated in a conspiracy to kill Pachacuti and overthrow the Inkas (Sarmiento de Gamboa [1572: chap. 34] 2007:123–124), a rebellion he put down by killing most of the Cuyos people. He was similarly pitiless in conquering the region of Ollantaytambo (Sarmiento de

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Gamboa [1572: chap. 35] 2007:125), where he burned the existing capital and created a new and imposing estate for himself. As he moved farther down the Urubamba River, Pachacuti came to the entrance to the Vilcabamba region, a land that offered wood, and rich gold and silver mines (Cobo [1653: chap. 12] 1979:137). The campaign took the army into difficult terrain: the rivers were deep and fast, and the land steep and densely wooded (fig. 13.8). And it was a land that the mountaindwelling Inkas considered dangerous—the forested lowlands were thought to be hazardous places, full of sickness and home to fierce beasts. Still, the Vilcabamba campaign was important to the Inka cause. It gave them undisputed access to important mineral sources, as well as to lands that could be developed for the production of coca, a substance critical to Inka ritual. Rowe has argued that Machu Picchu was almost surely another example of Pachacuti’s policy of building a monu-

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Figure 13.8. View of the steep sides of the Urubamba canyon from Machu Picchu. (Photo by Susan A. Niles)

Figure 13.9. Overview of Patallacta in the Cusichaca valley. (Photo by Susan A. Niles)

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ment to commemorate his conquest of this hard-won region (1990:141; and see Salazar’s review of the data [2004:26]). Although we often think of the modern limits of archaeological sites as coterminous with their ancient boundaries, this is not how the Inkas saw them. For example, if we examine its relationship to roads and other sites, it is clear that Machu Picchu is linked to a much larger system of properties—including the lush agricultural terraces and residential compounds of Patallacta (in the Cusichaca valley; see fig. 13.9), and the roads, terraces, and associated architecture of Huayna Quente, Runtu Raqay, Sayacmarca, Phuyu Patamarca, and the other sites in the region (Fejos 1944; Hemming and Ranney 1982:119–121; Kendall 1970). Much as was the case with other estates, such as Chinchero’s relationship to the fields near Urcosbamba (linked to Topa Inka’s estate at Chinchero) and Yucay (part of Huayna Capac’s estate; see Villanueva Urteaga 1970; Niles 1999; Covey and Amado Gonzalez 2008), Machu Picchu was but one part of a set of properties that belonged to the estate’s owner. The sixteenthcentury document that inventories fields on the estate names twenty-seven properties (and alludes to others) between Tanca (Tancac) and Cochabamba, a distance of at least thirty-two kilometers, or twenty miles (see Rowe 1990:154 for the identification of places named in the document). While Pachacuti’s estate further upriver at Ollantaytambo was provided with broad terraces and irrigation systems to make it a model of agricultural production, the Urubamba canyon in the region around Machu Picchu is narrow, with steep sides and few pieces of arable land. It is hardly surprising that most properties mentioned in the document were devoted to the cultivation of crops for rituals, and especially the cult of royal mummies (Rowe 1990:152). It is likely that the site we know as Machu Picchu was the principal palace compound for the estate and that the site itself had a relatively small permanent population. Its inhabitants were most likely sustained on crops grown on terraces in the nearby Cusichaca valley, linked to it by a road (see Fejos 1944; Kendall 1970), or they may have relied on crops produced on the rich terraced lands of Ollantaytambo (ca. 75 km away by foot), to which it was administratively linked in the sixteenth century (Rowe 1990:153). Documents discussing Huayna Capac’s estate at Yucay show that the residents who maintained it included some ethnic Inkas who oversaw work, people

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from conquered regions who were resettled to carry out the work, and a handful of local people permitted to remain on their traditional lands (see Villa­nueva Urteaga 1970; Niles 1999; Covey and Amado González 2008). For Machu Picchu, analysis of skeletal remains suggests that retainers buried there came from nonInka ethnic groups, particularly from regions near Lake Titicaca and from the region of Peru’s north and central coast (Salazar 2004:45; Verano 2003; Burger, LeeThorp, and van der Merwe 2003; Shinoda et al. 2006), an identification confirmed by the presence of a few provincial-style artifacts (inventoried in Burger and Salazar 2004:125–217). Inka stories of their mythical origins comment on their technological prowess, something that gave them an advantage over other people they had encountered in their legendary wanderings to found their city (see, e.g., the origin myths reported by Sarmiento de Gamboa [1572] 2007; Cobo [1653] 1979; Betanzos [1551–1557] 1996). In their handiworks, they similarly display an impressive ability to control their world and, by implication, other people. Studies of Machu Picchu show that the seemingly flat saddle of land upon which it is constructed is an intentionally created artifact (Wright and Valencia Zegarra 2000). The terraces that shore up the sides of the steep slope—as seen, for example, in figure 13.10—were similarly the product of careful planning and construction. While only excavations can show how their construction reveals an understanding of the requirements of drainage posed by the site (Wright, Kelly, and Valencia Zegarra 2000), even a casual look at the terraces shows that their precarious location must have made their construction a very hazardous enterprise. On their estates, each Inka king commissioned palaces to represent his vision of his place in the world. I have elsewhere argued that Huayna Capac, in the distinctive style of architecture he used in his palace at Quispiguanca, was responding to his place in royal succession, using technical prowess and canons of size, scale, and complexity, to reaffirm his contested position as Inka ruler (Niles 1999, 2004). Huayna Capac was addressing his architectural work to the audience of Cuzco’s royal families, some of whom may not have supported him in the internecine succession dispute that he withstood. While Huayna Capac’s constructions affirmed his interest in innovation and resolving technical problems, his grandfather, Pachacuti, used architecture to show

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Figure 13.10. Terracing along the steeply pitched slopes upon which buildings are constructed at Machu Picchu. (Photo by Susan A. Niles)

continuities with a claimed past. This early king situated himself and the Inka dynasty by referencing an architectural style devised by the ancient denizens of the site of Tiwanaku and reinvented for his constructions in Cuzco and on his estates at Pisac and Machu Picchu. A divine vision that confirmed for him the special status of ethnic Inkas relative to all other humans is, perhaps, reflected in buildings that vary with respect to their size and material, and the complexity of their arrangement. While I do not think it is possible at Machu Picchu to identify with certainty the rank of the occupants of particular structures, I think the design of the site reflects the overall Inka concern—and the undeniable obsession evinced by Pachacuti—with marking differences among the ranks of the people in their world. Further, the emphasis on walls and constrained passages in this and other of Pachacuti’s constructions (see fig. 13.11) also mirrors his view of the social place of the Inka people: the site does not afford unimpeded access through

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Figure 13.11. View across the main plaza of Machu Picchu. Note the tall wall surrounding the courtyard houses. Access to the group is by means of three double-jambed doorways. (Photo by Susan A. Niles)

its complexes any more than the social system put into place by Pachacuti permitted mobility between castes. Identifying Machu Picchu definitively as a royal estate has made it possible to consider aspects of nearby sites as parts of that estate. For example, Patallacta, in the Cusichaca valley, is located in the region developed by Pachacuti; it includes the formally planned and architecturally varied characteristics of elite Inka sites; it is built adjacent to Inka terraces; and it is linked by road to Machu Picchu and other Inka sites (Kendall 1974). Once documentary evidence proved that Machu Picchu was, in fact, an estate built for Pachacuti Inka (see Rowe 1990), Patallacta could be recognized as a support community that, among other things, sustained Machu Picchu. This identification also made it interesting to consider the genetic composition of its population relative to that of Machu Picchu (see Shinoda et al. 2006; also see chapter 4, by Shinoda).

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Further, the style and form of Machu Picchu have long invited comparisons to other Inka sites in the Vilcabamba range, such as Choquequirao (which has had a recent renaissance as a tourist destination), Rosaspata, and Espíritu Pampa (for a review of the location and identification of these remains, see Lee 1997, 2000; and Bingham 1910, 1912, 1914). These three sites share with Machu Picchu a focus on water and stone in the orientation of buildings; an emphasis on plazas that frame views; and a plan that includes walled spaces and multijambed portals. Establishing Machu Picchu as Pachacuti’s estate suggests the identification of these sites as his handiwork and, perhaps, the notion that some could have been built as estates. As a place developed to the exacting standards of that king, it is not surprising that Rosaspata (identified as the Inka site of Vitcos) was used well into the sixteenth century by Manco Inka as the capital of

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the Inkas who resisted the Spanish incursions into their lands, as suggested by Bingham and confirmed by Lee (Lee 2000:371–372). Manco Inka’s second capital, at Vilcabamba, (which Lee convincingly identifies as the archaeological site of Espíritu Pampa; Lee 2000:409) clearly has elements of construction dating to the midsixteenth century (viz. roof tiles), but again shares sufficient stylistic details with Machu Picchu to raise the question of whether it was originally established as an estate by Pachacuti, or whether Manco Inka used Pachacuti’s development there as a model for his own project.

documents that discuss their creation and that inventory their lands and the people who worked there, we can begin to imagine these places as their builders saw them: microcosms of their social, economic, and spiritual worlds, intentionally designed to exalt their reputation, to provide for their comfort, and to sustain the cult of their mummy. Bibliography Alcina Franch, José

1976

Conclusion When we visit archaeological sites such as Machu Picchu, Pisac, or Chinchero today, we surely marvel at the skill with which the Inkas built the sites and we comment on the ways that the structures enhance our contemplation of the beautiful landscape that surrounds them. These monuments let us see how Inka kings put their ability to command limitless resources into material form. Estates are also important to our scientific understanding of the Inkas, providing us the opportunity to further our understanding of the Inka Empire by applying insights from a range of disciplines, including physical anthropology, archaeology, history, and architecture. Thus we can use the study of genetic and osteological material to confirm the truth of sixteenthcentury accounts that the Inka resettled diverse populations to serve on estates, and can point to specific regions from which these populations may have been drawn. The existence of estates also confirms our reading of the Inka histories as histories—that is, as accounts of real people who led armies and built palaces. Thus a lingering debate that underlies our understanding of Inka dynasties and of Inka historical narratives is put to rest by the existence of properties that advanced the strategic goals of Inka rulers and that served the very real end of supporting royal families and the mummies of dead kings. As sites developed by named individuals at particular points in their lifetimes, royal estates permit us to untangle the chronological development of Inka style, and to gain a more nuanced understanding of Inka architecture. When we supplement our examination of the archaeological remains with a study of the historical

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Arqueología de Chinchero. 2 vols. Madrid: Misión Científica Española en Hispanoamérica, Junta para la Protección de Monumentos y Bienes Culturales en el Exterior, Dirección General de Relaciones Culturales, Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores.

Betanzos, Juan de

(1551–1557) 1996  Narrative of the Incas. Trans. and ed. Roland Hamilton and Dana Buchanan. Austin: University of Texas Press. Bingham, Hiram

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“The Ruins of Choquequirau.” American Anthropologist 12:505–525. “In the Wonderland of Peru—The Work Accomplished by the Peruvian Expedition of 1912, under the Auspices of Yale University and the National Geographic Society.” National Geographic Magazine 24:387–573. “The Ruins of Espiritu Pampa, Peru.” American Anthropologist 16:185–199. Machu Picchu—A Citadel of the Incas. New Haven: National Geographic Society and Yale University Press.

Burger, Richard L., Julia A. Lee-Thorp, and Nikolaas J. van der Merwe

2003

“Rite and Crop in the Inca State Revisited: An Isotopic Perspective from Machu Picchu and Beyond.” In The 1912 Yale Peruvian Scientific Expedition Collections from Machu Picchu: Human and Animal Remains, ed. Richard L. Burger and Lucy C. Salazar, 119–137. Yale University Publications in Anthropology 85. New Haven: Yale Peabody Museum Publications Office.

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The 1912 Yale Peruvian Scientific Expedition Collections from Machu Picchu: Human and Animal Remains. Yale University Publications in Anthropology 85. New Haven: Yale Peabody Museum Publications Office. 2004 Machu Picchu: Unveiling the Mystery of the Incas. New Haven: Yale University Press. 2003

Cobo, Bernabé

(1653) 1979  History of the Inca Empire. Trans. and ed. Roland B. Hamilton. Austin: University of Texas Press. Cook, O. F.

1918

“Peru as a Center of Domestication.” Journal of Heredity 16:95–110.

Covey, R. Alan, and Donato Amado González

2008 Imperial Transformations in Sixteenth-Century Yucay,

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Peru. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Museum of Anthropology.

Niles, Susan A., and Robert N. Batson

1999

Farrington, Ian S.

1995

“The Mummy Palace and Estate of Inka Huayna Capac at Quispeguanca.” Tawantinsuyu 1:55–65.

Farrington, Ian S., and Julinho Zapata

2003

“Nuevos canones de arquitectura Inka: Investigaciones en el sitio de Tambokancha-Tumibamba, Jaquijahuana, Cuzco.” Boletín de Arqueología 7:57–77.

Protzen, Jean-Pierre

1993

Hemming, John, and Edward Ranney

1982

Monuments of the Incas. Boston: Little, Brown, and Company.

Huaycochea Núñez de la Torre, Flor

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Qollqas: Bancos de reserva andinos. Cuzco: Universidad Nacional de San Antonio Abad del Cuzco.

Julien, Catherine

2000

Reading Inca History. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press.

Kendall, Ann

1974 1985

“Architecture and Planning at the Inca Sites in the Cusichaca Area.” Baessler-Archive Beiträge zur Völkerkunde, n.s. 24:41–159. Aspects of Inca Architecture: Description, Function, and Chronology. 2 vols. BAR International Series 242. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports.

Lee, Vincent R.

1997 2000

Choqek’iraw. Wilson, WY: published by the author. Forgotten Vilcabamba: Final Stronghold of the Incas. N.p.: Sixpac Manco.

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2004 “Machu Picchu: Mysterious Royal Estate in the Cloud Forest.” In Machu Picchu: Unveiling the Mystery of the Incas, ed. R. L. Burger and L. C. Salazar, 21–47. New Haven: Yale University Press. Sarmiento de Gamboa, Pedro

(1572) 2007  The History of the Incas. Trans. and ed. Brian S. Bauer and Vania Smith. Austin: University of Texas Press. Shinoda, Ken-ichi, Noboru Adachi, Sonia Guillén, and Izumi Shimada

2006 “Mitochondrial DNA Analysis of Ancient Peruvian Highlanders.” American Journal of Physical Anthropology 131:98–107. Vargas, Ernesto, ed.

2001 2003

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Noventa años del descubrimiento científico de Machu Picchu, 1911–2001. Cuzco: Instituto Nacional de Cultura.

Verano, John W.

“Of Remembering and Forgetting: The Architecture of Chinchero, Peru, from Thupa’ Inka to the Spanish Occupation.” PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley.

Callachaca: Style and Status in an Inca Community. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press. 1999 The Shape of Inca History: Narrative and Architecture in an Andean Empire. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press. 2004 “The Nature of Inca Royal Estates.” In Machu Picchu: Unveiling the Mystery of the Incas, ed. R. L. Burger and L. C. Salazar, 49–68. New Haven: Yale University Press.

“Inca Policies and Institutions Relating to the Cultural Unification of the Empire.” In The Inca and Aztec States, 1400–1800: Anthropology and History, ed. George A. Collier, Renato I. Rosaldo, and John D. Wirth, 93–110. New York: Academic. “Machu Picchu a la luz de documentos del siglo XVI.” Histórica 14:139–154.

Salazar, Lucy C.

Nair, Stella E.

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Inca Architecture and Construction at Ollantaytambo. New York: Oxford University Press.

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Fejos, Pál

1944 Archaeological Explorations in the Cordillera Vilcabamba, Southeastern Peru. Viking Fund Publications in Anthropology 3. New York.

“Spud Huts and Bean Barns: New Views of Inca Storage.” Paper presented at the 39th Annual Meeting of the Institute of Andean Studies, Berkeley.

“Human Skeletal Remains from Machu Picchu: A Reexamination of the Yale Peabody Museum’s Collections.” In The 1912 Yale Peruvian Scientific Expedition Collections from Machu Picchu: Human and Animal Remains, ed. Richard L. Burger and Lucy C. Salazar, 65–117. Yale University Publications in Anthropology 85. New Haven: Yale Peabody Museum Publications Office.

Villanueva Urteaga, Horacio

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“Documentos sobre Yucay en el siglo XVI.” Revista del Archivo Histórico del Cuzco 13:1–148.

Wright, Kenneth R., Jonathan Kelly, and Alfredo Valencia Zegarra

1997

“Machu Picchu: Ancient Hydraulic Engineering.” Journal of Hydraulic Engineering 123.10:838–843.

Wright, Kenneth R., and Alfredo Valencia Zegarra

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Machu Picchu: A Civil Engineering Marvel. Reston, VA: American Society of Civil Engineers Press.

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C H A P T E R 14

Inka Conceptions of Life, Death, and Ancestor Worship Peter Kaulicke

The confrontation and violent clash between sixteenthcentury Europeans and the native Inkas—boasting an enormously complex empire in a barely known continent—and the aftermath of these events incited an almost global fascination that has survived nearly five hundred years, to the present time. During this remarkably prolonged time span, seemingly innumerable, diversified images of the Inkas have been created (see chapter 19, by Amino). These perceptions have resulted from the idealizing tendencies of superimposed, changing, and often utopian European political models or supposedly viable indigenistic (pro-native) alternatives. The constructions of most of these approaches were not guided by the desire to know the other but sought to use him for different, mostly political, purposes. The result is a disturbing mixture of layered, often fantastic speculations and unproven hypotheses about the indigenous inhabitants. Only fairly recently have more serious approaches come into existence. These consist of closer studies of more or less direct sources, the sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century documents produced by Spaniards, criollos (persons born in Latin America), and mestizos (persons of mixed race) in a rapidly changing colonial world, the “New World,” amid changes that affected all the inhabitants of the former Inka Empire (see chapter 2, by Salomon). Even more recent are attempts at understanding the extant material culture—although frequently this approach is highly influenced by historiographic interpretations that are often taken at face value. The main approaches in this regard relate to North American historicism, with its main figure, John H. Rowe (1918–2004), who left many disciples; functionalism, represented by John V. Murra (1916–2006), also with many followers; and Dutch structuralism, applied by Reiner Tom Zuidema (born

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1927). All three of these scholars practice ethnohistory, a kind of hybrid between history and anthropology relating to the study of colonized people “without (their own) history.” With the exception of the work of Rowe, who tried to combine historical with archaeological approaches, these recent developments show a strong bias toward anthropology in the sense of cultural relativism. Even Latin American archaeologists with or without a tendency toward neo-indigenism tend to accept confidently the “truth” of written sources or the often rather differing discourses presented by ethnohistorians (see Kaulicke 2005:325–326). This predominantly anthropological stance could lead to the perception that a true understanding of the Inka is an impossible and therefore futile goal, as any opinion could be potentially acceptable. By taking up the idea of a certain confrontation between history and anthropology, we should ask whether and how the past could be remembered by precolonial peoples without comprehensible writing systems, and in a way that could offer us a more direct access to these systems. This particular topic is treated by other contributors to this volume, and it remains here to look for more accessible ways of extracting data from the extant written sources (and material expressions) that will allow us to define the memory mechanisms used or to understand how the past was remembered in early colonial times by native practitioners with direct personal knowledge of the pre-European past. As these often were informants hired or questioned by Spaniards, the latter with a background defined by medieval historical concepts quite unlike modern ones, mutual misunderstandings and/or even intentional misinterpretations were unavoidable, as, for instance, in the case of the inheritance mechanisms of the royal family and their social structure. But we should also be prepared to face the possibil-

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ity—or even the probability—of similarities between the complex medieval Christian tradition, with its corresponding representational system (e.g., iconographic themes), and the pre-conquest Andean systems, without the necessity of invoking facile assumptions of processes such as syncretism, acculturation, or enculturation (Bouysse-Cassagne 2005:59–60). Because one of the major obstacles in analyzing oral traditions is the translation of complex terms from one language to the other, in our case, from Quechua to Spanish—although the linguistic situation of sixteenth-century Cuzco is more complicated (see Cerrón-­Palomino, chapter 3 in this volume)—a good command of the native language underlying the translated narratives should be a prerequisite. On the other hand, the informant should be as well acquainted with his own tradition as possible, including having lived much of his or her life before the arrival of the Spaniards and being willing to share his recollections with the writer. As the Spaniards were particularly interested in elite cultures and their most prominent representatives, the informant(s) should have belonged to or should have had direct access to this privileged segment of Inka society. These preconditions are not met by many sixteenthcentury writers, but there is one who does seem to fit better than others: Juan de Betanzos (1519–1576; for his life, career, and works see Domínguez Faura 1992, 1998, 2008; also see chapter 2, by Salomon). His command of the Quechua language was good enough to allow him to serve as an official interpreter, and he was married to one of Huayna Capac’s daughters—who should have been helpful to him in gaining access to her noble relatives. In the prologue of his main extant work, called Suma y narración de los Incas (Narrative of the Inkas), probably finished in 1551 (Betanzos [1551] 1880, 1924, 1987, 1996), he is most interested in stressing that he worked with many of the most aged informants, and he calls himself a “neutral” translator of their narratives (Betanzos [1551] 1987:7). He is distancing himself from less trustworthy accounts of his time that were based on “faltering” informants and the compilers’ indirect access to the source language, via translators. In fact, Betanzos’s Spanish is rather awkward (see Porras [1962] 1986:310) but employs many Quechua-style characteristics (Dedenbach 1994:168–169), which could suggest that his assertion of direct translations might be justified to a certain extent.

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The facts, however, that these Quechua informants remain anonymous in his writing and that Betanzos did some editing based on different narratives introduce factors that might distort the original messages. While many parts of these narratives are known from other written sources of the time, particularly the second part of Cieza’s Crónica del Perú (Cieza [1551] 1985), perhaps because these chroniclers used some of the same informants, there is much that is original in Betanzos. Indeed, the whole structure and logic exposed in his work allow us to tackle the ontological topics that figure in the title of this contribution more successfully than if we were trying to compile scattered references from multiple other sources or focusing on detailed philological and historical questions. His is a ritualized narrative focused on the Inka in a way an Egyptologist once called Geschichte als Fest (History as feast) (Hornung 1966), referring to the sense of history in ancient Egypt. The parallels are striking in many ways: the pharaoh’s supposed kinship with the Sun God, prescribed roles (as described below) for the Inka, and his conversion into a god after death and subsequent veneration. Theirs is a cyclicity based on the logic of repetition of world renewals, the regularity of which produces security and social welfare (see Kaulicke 2000:46–48; Hornung 1982). In the following sections, the three topics contained in the title of this chapter will be treated as (a) the Inka’s multiple bodies in time and space, (b) preparation for eternity, and (c) the Inka in materialized memory. Following this discussion will be a case study in which the results of these analyses are contrasted to materialized evidence in context: at Pisac in the Urubamba valley near Cuzco. The Inka’s Bodies Even the most cursory reading of Betanzos’s text reveals that Cuzco is not only the capital of the empire, but also its social and ceremonial center—a microcosm, with the Inka as the supreme head of the Cuzco society, the Sapa Inka or Capac Inka (in Betanzos’s translation, “mayor no lo hay ni puede haber” [“he is supreme and nobody could possibly surpass him”] [Betanzos (1551) 1987:7]). The Inka is seen as a kind of axis mundi of this microcosm and is therefore of utmost importance for

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his society, but his own world is restricted to a circle of those persons who are his kin or heads of other Cuzco Inka lineages in constant contact with him. “History,” in the sense of a link between past, present, and future, is only possible through him and his different roles and manifestations as well as his limited circle of related kin, nobility, and people in his service. This all-embracing relevance is expressed (a) in rituals of his life cycle (birth, ascension to the throne, marriage, and death), (b) in his prescribed tasks, and (c) in the multiplicity of images related to his person. The life rituals start with his birth, a strictly private affair in which his mother and the newborn are enclosed in darkness for four days, followed by ten days of feasting. After one year his hair is cut by the reigning Inka in a public ceremony on the Great Plaza, the center of Cuzco. The most important aspect of this ceremony is his naming, which implies that this first identity stage is tied to external body change (shortened hair). The second important life ceremony is the power transmission from the old to the new Inka, symbolized in the transmission of a special headband called mascapaycha (added to the previously acquired earlobe perforations for the insertion of ear spools); this complex ritual sequence also ends with his receiving a new name. Related to these is another ceremony, the marriage to his main wife, called Coya in Quechua. The ritual begins with his being secluded in a dark room with his bride and his mother-in-law for a period of ten days, for the purpose of purification. During this period sacrifices of different animals and humans (capacocha in Quechua) help to stabilize the dangerous liminal situation. After these ten days come another three months of feasting with sacrifices to the sun god and the ancestors; distribution of different kinds of gifts follows. Finally, the Inka’s death again is the subject of complex rituals, which are grounded in the same logic: enclosure, purification, and sacrifices in darkness followed, after a year, by public rituals (see below). This sequence then represents phases of changing identities as expressed in different names and changes of appearance, especially the head. These identity changes are potentially dangerous and demand intimacy, whereas the successful outcome is to be legitimized by the population of Cuzco, the gods, and the ancestors—or, so to speak, the entire cosmos. The Inka had to excel in some crucial tasks even

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before assuming power, and other requirements were added during his time as leader. These tasks serve to showcase the Inka as a warrior, a hunter, a builder, and a cult renovator. In other words, he acquires cosmological dimensions as the builder of cities, temples, hydraulic works, etc., by defending his people from enemies as a warrior and a hunter, and by recreating the world. In all these tasks he is assisted by the sun god (Inti), other divinities, and images of his ancestors—another evident proof of the exalted sphere of his actions (for more details see Kaulicke 1998, 2000). While these changes and prescribed roles affect the personal body and self of the Inka, there are other materialized representations, in the sense of alter egos or multiple identities, that stress his universal importance as a living king and (as we shall see later) as an ancestor. His universal importance is also to be seen in his disguise as a local god during his visits to other peoples of his realm; he is venerated by the people through the sacrifices he receives and because of the sumptuous gifts of different kinds, such as fine garments, women, and camelids, distributed in his name (Betanzos 1987:185–186; see Kaulicke 2008:394–395). Other such images of the Inka are body substitutes subsumed under the category of what Betanzos and other colonial writers call bultos. This term apparently has various connotations and material expressions: images of stone and gold, human bodies (“mummies”), bundles containing cut fingernails and hair, and even living animals or their images, as well as symbolic objects such as the suntur paucar (a pole with multicolored feathers and a circle of longer feathers on one end) (Kaulicke 2000:35–39; Molina 1989:102). The term bulto derives from Latin vultus, “face” or, more specifically, “facial expression,” referring to the images of saints’ heads; it is certainly not a synonym of “mummy bundle,” as is often stated in modern literature (Kaulicke 2000:36). These representations are, rather, materializations of alter ego that represent the Inka in life via a bundle containing his hair and fingernails or an animal such as the napa, an elaborately dressed alpaca (see Kaulicke 1998: n. 17). In Quechua terms these are called huauque, or “brother,” defined as “statue of the Inka venerated in feasts and sacrifices” (Polo de Ondegardo [1571] 1917:8) or “idol or demon whom each Inka adopted as company giving him counsel and oracle” (Sarmiento de Gamboa [1572] 1965:220). Cobo ([1653] 1964:162–

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164) is more explicit in defining it as “a statue representing the Inka’s person, and with certain solemnity and ceremonies they take it as his brother. . . . It was made in different scales and similarity in gold, silver, wood, or other material. . . . These idols were highly venerated during the lifetime of their lords and were deposited with the dead in their burials.” Even the sun god in the main temple, the Coricancha at Cuzco, was represented in the form of bultos, apparently textile bundles with false heads, adorned with the mascapaycha and named Apu-Inti, Churi-Inti, and Inti Guauqui (Cobo [1653] 1964:157–158; see Kaulicke 1998:156–157). Apu, “grandfather,” and churi, “son,” evidently are also kinship terms. These material manifestations therefore hide extremely diversified meanings encompassing “real” social connections, those between the living and the god capable of aging as the living, and between the living and the dead. They are transportable and can be moved in processions in and around Cuzco and between nodal points related to places frequented by the Inka and his ancestors—palaces, funerary structures, springs, channels, decorated and undecorated rocks, and others that include petrified ancestors. They are huacas, or sacred places and objects (see chapter 8, by Earls and Cervantes), and symbols of commemoration, origin myths, territorial markers, beginnings of irrigation channels, or places for libations and offerings. Preparation for Eternity These acts of identity creation and materializations are closely connected to memory construction (see Kaulicke 2003). Even the Inka names, or, perhaps more appropriately, titles, reflect this almost obsessive preoccupation, for example, yupanqui, “he who is honored and remembered,” or pachacuti, “he who reenacts the world origins.” In this sense the death of the Inka is a transcendental event. The pertinent ritual cycle starts even before his physical death, as he is seen gathering his sons and lords, transmitting to them visions of the future, marrying his daughters to Cuzco nobles, giving advice in order to maintain order and welfare, and preparing his own funeral ceremonies. Finally he passes away, singing a special song for the occasion. After his death, all members of his household remain in darkness for three days and are dressed in dark clothes with no

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shiny adornments. The successor is named in secret, and provincial lords are invited to Cuzco. After these three days, each inhabitant of the Inka’s palace washes him/herself, changes clothes, and paints his/her face with green herbs. The next step is the sacrifice of the Inka’s women, sons, and volunteers, who are strangled and buried with precious utensils and maize. This is followed by a ritual meeting of the lords, who recall the dead Inka’s deeds. Afterward the dead Inka is prepared (as a bundle) and placed with his ancestors. The next step consists in the “marriage” of five- to sixyear-old children, who are buried alive in places the deceased used to visit and in the sea. Now the whole population begins to participate in a ten-day mourning, with chicha (maize beer) libations and camelid (alpaca and llama) sacrifices. All wear simple clothes and paint their faces with bitumen. A year after these events a great feast, called purucaya, takes place in Cuzco, lasting an entire month. It starts with groups of men and women with blackpainted faces carrying the dead Inka’s belongings—his clothes, adornments, and weapons—and visiting all the places frequented by the Inka. These processions take place day and night for a period of fifteen days, and the participants talk to his belongings. The principal noble addresses the deceased Inka in heaven, begging for his intervention in the elimination of illnesses and for good weather and harvests. After these introductory rituals, the proper feast begins on Cuzco’s central plaza, with spectacularly dressed dancers enacting a battle. Interrupted by mourning, a ritual battle between Hanan and Hurin Cuzco groups (“upper” and “lower” moieties, or complementary, dual social divisions) is performed; this is won by the former dancing lords, and women dressed as warriors mark the end of this ritual cycle. After these events everyone changes into “normal” clothes and burns his mourning dress. Enormous quantities of camelids, some dressed (like the napa), are burnt, others are strangled and distributed to the inhabitants, and still others are burnt at the places the dead Inka frequented. Betanzos mentions a total of five thousand sacrificed animals as well as a mass sacrifice of a thousand children (capacocha) (see Kaulicke 1998:148–151). In the case of Pachacuti’s further funerary treatment, the following steps are also specified. His dressed body was buried in a big ceramic vessel at Patallacta in the Urubamba valley, northwest of Cuzco. Above

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the tomb a golden image, supposedly representing his appearance in life, was placed, to be venerated. A similar image also stood in the sun temple. A bundle containing his hair and fingernails was then transported to Cuzco in a litter. Members of Pachacuti’s lineage were entitled to the bundle’s permanent service and to chant commemorative songs (Kaulicke 1998:152). Having accomplished all that, the bundle came to form part of the group of other ancestors who were ubiquitous in all important rituals and in battles, resided in palaces, and received constant services. Before commenting on these sequences, we should ask what happened in the year between the death and the celebration of the purucaya. While not much is known about this intervening time, Cieza ([1551] 1985:92) mentions that the deceased was converted into a saint or divinity in a process called ylla, which means “body of whom was good in life” (probably meaning that he led an exemplary life), “in another sense of the term yllapa [which] means thunder or lightning.” The complex term illa also is used for special stones (bezoar), for treasures, courageous men, booty, and ancient objects (González Holguín [1608] 1952:366–367). Albornoz ([1583/4] 1989:167–168) gives additional meanings, identifying the term with the ancient mummified lords and twins who were sacrificed to the gods and with thunder and lightning, as they were considered their offspring. Nowadays high Andean pastoralists use stone figurines of llamas, alpacas, or sheep called illa, while enqachu (from the Inka) are the bezoar stones found in the guts of wild and domestic camelids that are guarded in bundles (bulto). According to Flores Ochoa, enqa is the vital generating principle, the origin of happiness and abundance and also of general welfare. The illas represent the strongest animals, usually as marked by double horns, in the case of sheep, etc. (Flores Ochoa 1976; see Allen 1998:24). This complex semantic field is probably centered on the concept of light (sun during the day, lightning at night) as a vivifying force and as a kind of very special energy. Rituals related to the regeneration of the sun parallel the ritual of the Inka’s death. The sun plunges into the sea, to be reborn the next morning, bringing subterranean water to the world. The dead Inka and his ancestors apparently accompany him in his journey and are reborn too; the golden idol in the sun temple is described as both a child and an image of the Inka. It is clear that the production of water was of major con-

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cern, as is shown by a ritual described by Estete ([1535] 1924:55), who mentions that enormous amounts of chicha, maize beer, were consumed without solid food, resulting in the production of large quantities of urine, disposed of in subterranean channels “as if they were springs.” The abundance of quotations here is justified, as they help to clarify the nature of ancestrality. The living Inka sovereign was in constant need of the Sun’s and his ancestors’ help, even though his supremacy was basically unquestioned. Life crises demanded a renewal of his energy via sacrifices related to liquids, fire, and even life itself (in the shape of young children still full of life energy). These liquids were offered in a socialized form, as a kind of “cultural water”—be that chicha, blood, urine, or perhaps something signifying human semen. This vitalizing energy apparently was seen as a kind of transcendental light. It seems that this universal power—the ultimate source of social welfare and the maintenance of world order—could be maintained only through constant world-renewing, which in turn needed the permanent intervention of the entire society. Just like the living Inka himself, his society depended on the goodwill of his ancestors and the gods; the reigning Inka joined that group after death, and the gods were engaged in constant cycles of death and regeneration. These interventions apparently include the military victory over darkness exemplified in the ritual battles performed during the purucaya, which in turn also replicated one of the major roles the Inka had in his lifetime. Ancestors, Water, and Landscape The preceding interpretations, based on texts, reveal a logic surrounding the Inka conception of life, death, and ancestrality that should be examined in materialized items and/or contexts. These, as has been shown, are frequently mentioned, but in most cases they are no longer extant. Some perhaps should not be sought out, as for instance the Inka mummies (see Pringle 2011:58, with improbable reconstruction based on Guaman Poma’s drawings, 46–47; for background information see Bauer and Coello 2007 and Hampe 2003). As was shown, these portable materializations and their agents moved cyclically between special places on fixed circuits throughout a ritual network centered at Cuzco

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and extending into a wider complex landscape around this center. In the Inka case, the term “landscape” acquires an almost literal sense as “carving of the world” (as in the title of Guchte 1990), one that is particularly attractive to modern viewers because of its aesthetic appeal (see also chapters 10 and 11, by Cummins, and Nair and Protzen, respectively). This landscape is by no means a timeless construction but rather the sum of aggregated memory places and paths as monuments for and constructed by the ancestors, who might even be present in them. According to early sources, however, these ancestors were not mythical beings but actual rulers who tried to surpass their predecessors via ever-more-impressive constructions in order to create their own monuments, even adopting distinctive architectural styles (see Niles 1999; see chapter 13, by Niles). While the Inka bodies are lost, their memory places are still extant to a considerable degree. While much of the Inka capital has been destroyed or is overlain by colonial or modern buildings, the main ceremonial center, the sun temple, has been partially preserved. It was the nodal point of a cosmogram, a kind of world model, imagined as lines radiating from this center like an extended khipu with some four hundred memory places as “knots” on its “cords” (see chapters 8 and 10, by Earls and Cervantes, and Cummins, respectively). Working from the writing of Cobo ([1653] 1964), Zuidema (1964) has interpreted this model as a spatial representation of social and political organization, as well as a calendar based on astronomical observations (see also Zuidema 2010). Major components of these landscapes include water, in the form of springs, rivers, waterfalls, fountains, channels, and reservoirs, and rocks, which might appear as mountains, outcrops, and boulders, either moved intentionally or left in place, sculpted or unmodified (Kaulicke et al. 2003:44–46; for examples, see figures in chapter 10, by Cummins). Guchte (1990:331–333) lists different concepts linked to rocks; for instance, they might be symbols of commemoration, origin places, links between metaphysical beings and the human world, or territorial, irrigation, and field markers. Rocks served as communication points between the living and the dead when used as altars for offerings and libations. Finally, they could be status markers in a system of oppositions like hierophanies (i.e., manifestations of the sacred), according to the concept of huaca, “which involves ancestral cults and death, living kings

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and struggles with supernatural beings, and oracular and shamanic activities” (Guchte 1990:332). Thus it is clear that Inka water, rock, and funerary installations were intimately connected, but most explanations of Inka attitudes to landscape and their components often arise from a potpourri of folktales— which date from colonial through modern times and are usually not limited to the Cuzco area—and from philological speculations that are based on various sources concerning different times and spaces. This procedure usually is justified by the assumptions of the spatial and temporal unity of the Andes, and of Cuzco as a village and Inka history as a myth—and all this is most forcefully defended by Zuidema (see Nowack 1998). As might be expected, however, these text-based approaches are ill-suited for the analysis of concrete landscapes without either full documentation of the “natural” and “cultural” space(s) or excavations. Only physical investigations are capable of providing us with independent clues regarding the spatial organization and ritual use of the relevant sites, but pertinent archaeological information is scarce despite the fieldwork already undertaken in those areas. In the following, two such sites will be presented: the important ritual landscape of Upper Cuzco, and Pisac in the Urubamba valley. In an area called Saqsayhuaman Archaeological Park (atop a plateau overlooking Cuzco), measuring more than three thousand hectares, some fifty-three archaeological complexes and more than two hundred sites are registered (Instituto Nacional de Cultura Cusco 2007). The sometimes fanciful Quechua toponyms and functional attributions in use since colonial times are often misleading, but there can be little doubt that this is an enormous ritualized landscape, including as it does some forty groups of mainly sculpted calcareous outcrops or boulders, several encircled by walls of different scales, sometimes quite large (see Guchte 1990:73–75). These rocks are often associated with reservoirs (qochas), fountains, channels, and terraces frequently displaying superb masonry, as well as paths and roads. Excavation in some of these areas has revealed the existence of human burials and different types of offerings, mainly in the monumental area to the west of modern Cuzco (for description, see Guchte 1990:119– 142). The initial occupation of this area apparently dates back to some five hundred years before the main Inka reorganization of the space. Unfortunately the scattered data available do not permit the attribution of

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Figure 14.1. Aerial photo of Pisac (SAN 181-70-847). (After Kaulicke et al. 2005: fig. 1)

particular landscape features to specific rulers, and their precise involvements in the construction and functioning of such structures are unknown. Betanzos’s versions certainly are not unreasonable in view of the material remains. The second case is Pisac, another example of a ritualized landscape; fieldwork was undertaken at the site in 2000 (Kaulicke et al. 2005). Pisac belongs to the category of sites considered to be royal estates and is attributed to Pachacuti Inka, along with Ollantaytambo, Machu Picchu, and others in the Urubamba valley (aka “Sacred Valley of the Inkas”), which runs east–west to the north of Cuzco (see chapter 13, by Niles). It was visited by Squier ([1877] 1974) and Wiener ([1880] 2010) in the late nineteenth century and afterward by numerous other visitors or researchers, but was known by sixteenth-century writers as well (see Kaulicke et al. 2005:31–37). The published opinions about its functions and relevance, however, vary greatly and need not be discussed here. A general description will highlight the spatial organization of Pisac (figs. 14.1, 14.2). The site is characterized by a remarkable symmetry in its upper/northern part and lower/southern part, both with projected, curved constructions. These are situated on both extremes of a 720-meter-long, S-shaped mountain-

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top, which consists of a thoroughly eroded, partially sculpted limestone outcrop. This mountaintop is delimited to the east by a long well-made stone wall with four entrances—forming a kind of enclosure, which is a common feature in Inka architecture (see above)— used to highlight a locale generically known as huaca. To the west this huaca is encircled by a channel (fig. 14.2: channel 2), which replaces the eastern wall and is joined by other shorter channels in the southern half of the mountaintop (fig. 14.2: channels 3 and 4). The whole area is also encompassed by two river gorges, the Kitamayo to the west and the Chongo to the east. The cliffs along the northern part of the western margin of the Kitamayo River contain numerous groups of burial structures (fig. 14.2: Tantana Marka), while the eastern one has groups of terraces, a feature that also characterizes the northeastern and southeastern slopes of the central mountain. The original entrance to the site, from the south, is also flanked by terraces. Especially important for the present purpose is the northern part of the site, where the mountain of Pisac meets another one to the north (also surrounded by channels 2 and 3 [fig. 14.2]). The two mounds are separated by a flat area that is flanked on both sides by terraces in an hourglass-like form. Other, differently made terraces are concentrated on the western bank of the

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Figure 14.2. Map of Pisac (modified after original plan INC, Cuzco). (After Kaulicke et al. 2005: fig. 2)

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Figure 14.3. Terraces with twin structure on top. Note the lush vegetation growing around the spring. (Photo Julinho Zapata)

Kitamayo River. These terraces are part of a compound containing a row of three low platforms with standing stones on the riverbank and a twin-towerlike funerary structure in its upper part (see fig. 14.2, near the beginning of channel 2; figs. 14.3, 14.4). This edifice reused parts of the structures at the northern limit of the burial area mentioned above (fig. 14.5). It forms an impressive Inka funerary complex, now somewhat obscured by modern destruction and dense vegetation. Some fifteen meters below the twin structure is a spring. Its water is gathered into a reservoir and conducted to an open channel (channel 2), running above the modified riverbank until it reaches the Antachaca sector. From here an aqueduct (aqueduct 1), made of excellent stonework and 20.7 meters in length and about 20 meters high (fig. 14.6), crosses the river and brings the water to a cliff on the other side of the valley. Here it meets another aqueduct (aqueduct 2), with three massive pillars (twenty meters in length and heights up to seven meters) (fig. 14.7). From there channel 2 heads in the direction of the southern end of the Pisac hill, to the sector called Intiwatana. Here outstanding

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architecture surrounds an open space providing superb panoramic views (fig. 14.8). Another channel (channel 4) runs down from the hilltop and feeds the main channel via stone fountains (fountains 3, 4; fig. 14.9). Channel 2 surrounds this sector and then runs down to other fountains (fountains 5–7) and disappears in the Pisaqa sector after a distance of 1.1 km (for a more detailed description see Kaulicke et al. 2005:37–48, 51–52, figs. 1–6, 14–20). This extraordinary hydraulic/funerary installation was hardly built for an exclusively economic function, as its capacity is limited. In fact, a major supply channel that enters the site from the north originated in the Quinsacocha Lake, which is about twenty kilometers away. It is clear that other lines of inquiry will be more promising in accounting for this landscape. In the morning the first rays of the sun bring light to the twin-tower funerary structure, in particular a niche of the compound. The sun rises on the eastern horizon between two triangular mountains, where an important Killke (early Inka period) site, Pukara Pantilliclla, is situated. This site is probably coeval with the Tantana

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Figure 14.4. Close-up of funerary structures. (Photo Tetsuya Kusuda)

Figure 14.5. Row of Killke chullpas, Tantana Marka. (Photo Tetsuya Kusuda)

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Figure 14.6. Antachaca aqueduct. (Photo Tetsuya Kusuda)

Figure 14.7. Second aqueduct. (Photo Tetsuya Kusuda)

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Figure 14.8. Intiwatana sector. (Photo Tetsuya Kusuda)

Figure 14.9. Channel in the Intiwatana sector. (Photo Tetsuya Kusuda)

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Marka funerary structures at Pisac (Covey 2003:338, figs. 5, 11). This part of the mountain is called Guanacauri, a name related to a sun divinity and Viracocha (the creator deity in the Inka origin mythology) as well as to the origin of the Inkas (Szemiñski 1991). A probable interpretation, then, much in the sense of the discussion presented above, is that the “young” sunlight feeds the ancestors and causes them to deliver their “cultural water,” which first passes through darkness and the realm of the dead, then to be fortified by the huaca (in the form of channel 4, connected with sculpted rocks) and the sun god in the sun temple (Intiwatana), where the elaborate hydraulic installations are hewn in rocks. After all this it enters the agricultural sector. This interpretation implies a kind of materialized cosmogonic history of cycles related to light and darkness, birth and death (or regeneration), and centrality (huaca). Variously formed stone installations with differing masonry and colors provide “natural” water that is converted into “cultural” water, which fulfils various roles in the meaningful ordering of space. The resulting landscape is also a kind of cosmogram or microcosm. This overall interpretation is in accordance with the ritual logic that focuses on the person of the ruler at Cuzco. Thus there can be little doubt that the Inka, as the lord or owner of this “estate,” is also manifested materially in this place where previous people, probably the ethnic group called Cuyos, already had a burial ground and a sanctuary. The total reconfiguration of the local landscape by Pachacuti, then, is a political statement too, in the sense that he replaces the previous cult with the Inka Sun cult and his own cult, making the sun temple (Intiwatana) a manifestation of the sun’s and his own victory. But as the son of the Sun, the Inka’s role is far more transcendental than that of a military leader crushing the enemy. His tomb, probably a cenotaph, is the focal point of cosmogonic origin as well as the origin of water and its cycle of death and regeneration, which is embodied in the segments of the water courses at the site. In its final part, the assistance and approval of the gods and the huaca are manifested in an apotheosis and an involvement of the wider landscape as an image of the cosmos, all pointing to the cosmological center of Cuzco.

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Conclusions The interpretations presented in this chapter, which elaborate on essentially one written source and basically one archaeological site, are admittedly prone to criticisms, but these readings do seem to reveal an ontological logic of ritual cycles, as implied by Betanzos’s informants. This logic can hardly be explained as a mixture of European and non-European thought, although it does reflect some congruent ideas of Old World divine kingship, above all in the nature of the rituals and their complicated imagery, that are somewhat comparable to ancient Egyptian concepts (see Kaulicke 2000)—which, of course, would not have been accessible to Betanzos or his Inka informants. The supreme centrality of the Inka is evident in every aspect of his role in his society. The sacred center of Cuzco is a microcosm and the “center of the center,” the abode of the gods and the ancestors as well as the focal point of, ultimately, the universe. The living sovereign is linked inextricably to this center as a transmitter amid past, present, and future, between ancestors, the gods, and his own conversion to ancestor, in a kind of world axis (axis mundi). His deeds are not vain propaganda or self-aggrandizement but, rather, necessary steps to ensure ancestrality. “Ancestrality” here is understood as a basic concept concerning the conversion of exalted social personae who, through death, are thought to obtain “new qualities” by coming into closer association with the sun god. This closeness permits a new level of communication with their respective living societies via various channels (like the living Inka); such a dialogue should result in the promotion of social welfare, but this can be achieved only if the necessary rituals are strictly respected. These ritual attentions are in some sense exalted reflections of those received by each of the Inka during their lifetimes. The setup at Pisac, which basically seems to confirm these concepts, hardly can be an exception. But for us to be able to generalize from this case, a more sustained approach is needed, one that requires more data. From such additional information we might be able to specify the assumed rituals and therefore the necessary component of human ritual activities practiced in each particular place in the landscape, as it has been perceived and modified by the Inka. Unfortunately, although these data seem to exist, they are not accessible in existing publications.

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Thus, instead of endless discussions about philological and historiographic problems, a more sophisticated approach to the issues of death and ancestrality, as presented in the sixteenth-century sources, is needed for us to be able to grasp the full complexity that seems to characterize them, particularly in the case of the Inka. The interpretations presented above need a fuller assessment and analysis, relying on sources only barely mentioned here.

Domínguez F., Nicanor

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PA R T I V

Imperial Administration in the Provinces

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C H A P T E R 15

Collasuyu of the Inka State Martti Pärssinen

My aim in this chapter is to present an updated vision of the Collasuyu sector of the Inka state, using (ethno-) historical and archaeological data accumulated during the last decades. I will compare Cuzco-based information to local evidence. Above all, I will concentrate on the spatial and chronological issues around the Inka expansion—by discussing the archaeology–history concordance—to argue for the need to reconsider the traditional chronology of the Collasuyu conquest established by John H. Rowe, and to demonstrate the Tiwanaku–Inka stylistic continuity in the Lake Titicaca region. The Cuzco region as well as the entire Inka state, or Tawantinsuyu—literally “the state of four corners”— was divided into four sections: Chinchaysuyu, Antisuyu, Collasuyu, and Cuntisuyu. In the heart of Cuzco, the Collasuyu section seems to have lain on the western bank of the Tullumayo River, to the northwest of the Coricancha temple and the Hurin Haucaypata Plaza (Pärssinen 1992:228–235). However, in the wider surroundings of the Inka capital, Collasuyu formed the southeastern corner of the Cuzco region (Aveni 1980; Bauer 2000; Zuidema 1986). And finally, at the state level, Collasuyu is said to have sprawled out from Urcos toward the south (Santillán [1563] 1968:105; see also Pärssinen 1992:244), but there is still no consensus about its exact outer limits in the Inka period. The boundary between Cuntisuyu and Collasuyu has been particularly disputed. Rowe (1946:262) originally established the frontier roughly at Moquegua, an idea supported also by Moseley (1978) and the Moquegua archaeological project (see Asociación Contisuyo 1997). Later, Rowe (1979) moved the borderline toward Chilean Arica, a position proposed earlier by von Hagen (1961). Nevertheless, independent of these studies, both Catherine Julien (1991) and I (Pärssinen

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1992) established the borderline near present-day Arequipa, because local sources dating to the early Colonial period indicate that the territory between Arequipa and Arica, including Moquegua and Tarapacá (so-called Colesuyu; see Rostworowski 1986), was originally part of Collasuyu. New Definition of the Boundaries of Collasuyu Some of the confusion in establishing the boundaries of Collasuyu may derive from the founding of Villa Hermosa (Arequipa) in the early Colonial period. Initially the city was to be founded in the Camaná valley of Cuntisuyu, but soon the location was changed to Arequipa (1540), near the Cuntisuyu–Collasuyu borderline. Possibly only then was Colesuyu of Collasuyu annexed to the coastal Cuntisuyu provinces and thus placed under the same local jurisdiction. A very important source supporting this interpretation is the encomienda grant given to Lucas Martínez by Francisco Pizarro as early as August 1, 1535, in Cuzco. This document states that Catari (today, Carumas), Moquegua, and Tarapacá (on the far north coast of Chile) belonged to Collasuyu (Pizarro [1535] 2010:99–100). At the time, the southern parts of Tawantinsuyu had not yet officially been explored, and thus this information must have been based on indigenous sources. We should bear in mind that only two weeks earlier, Diego Almagro and Francisco Pizarro had made an agreement that gave the former most of Collasuyu. On August 1, 1535, Almagro was in Paria (near Oruro in western Bolivia) and was headed to Chile in order to subjugate the southern Andes and incorporate them into the Spanish kingdom (Barragán Vargas 2001; Pärssinen et al. 2010).1

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266  MARTTI PÄRSSINEN

Furthermore, even though Julien and I assumed in the 1990s that Collagua (one of various groups that comprised the Aymara) formed part of Cuntisuyu, today we have reason to believe that we were both wrong; Collagua may indeed originally have belonged to Collasuyu. A khipu-based text describing the conquests of Topa Inka and his two brothers hints that Collagua was a part of Collasuyu in Inka times: Tarapacá and Collagua are mentioned in the same khipu as other provinces of Collasuyu. Moreover, the same text points out that Collasuyu extended toward the southern coast of present-day Peru and the adjacent far northern coast of Chile, and from Carabaya (Kallawaya) toward Samaipata (Bolivia) and Tucumán (Argentina) (Capac Ayllu [1569] 2004:95–96). I consider this source to be one of the most genuine representations of Inka history before the Spanish conquest and therefore employ it as a primary reference for this study. The southern frontier was said to have been established either at the Maipo River, near present-day Santiago de Chile, or at the Maule River, situated approxi-

Figure 15.1. The four suyus of the Inka state. (Drawn by M. Pärssinen)

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mately two hundred kilometers south of the Maipo. Furthermore, archaeologists have found indirect indicators of social and commercial transactions between the Inka and Mapuche Indians as far south as the Bio Bio River, further south from the Maule. Thus, the frontier seems to have fluctuated constantly (Dillehay and Gordon 1988). Nevertheless, more or less permanent signs of the Inka presence can today be detected only along the Cachapoal River, situated halfway between the Maipo and Maule Rivers (Stehberg and Rodríguez 1995) (fig. 15.1). The Problematic Chronology of the Inka Expansion Since the 1920s, one of the fundamental questions in the field of Inka studies has been when the Inka expansion began and how rapidly it spread in the Andean region. Earlier, Philip  A. Means (1931:222–283) favored the idea that the conquest was gradual, occurring from the time of the second Inka (Sinchi Roca) onward. Nevertheless, in the 1940s Rowe (1945, 1946:265–284) argued that the conquest was rapid and was actually set in motion by the so-called ninth Inka, Pachacuti. Although currently the most commonly accepted chronology is the one proposed by Rowe, doubts about its accuracy have been put forth every now and then (Covey 2003; Hiltunen 1999). Among others, Åke Wedin (1963:36–63) has argued that there are many contradictions in the chronicles and even in local information related to the chronology of the Inka conquest. The same places are said to have been subjugated by different Inka rulers. However, different narrations of conquest are not necessarily contradictory, since rapid expansion, rebellions, and reconquests may have been phases of the very same process, as noted by John  V. Murra (1986:52). In fact, this is exactly what a local informant told the Spaniards in Chachapoya (Chinchaysuyu in northern Peru; see chapter 17, by Schjellerup) in 1574 while explaining how Atahualpa came to conquer that region “even though the area had already been conquered by his father, Huayna Capac, and by his grandfather Topa Yupanqui” (Vizcarra [1574] 1967:305). In general it seems that each new Inka had to confirm his political authority in the eyes of the provincial leaders in order to prevent possible rebellions. This also attests that the provinces of the Inka state were

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not annexed to Tawantinsuyu willingly; rather, the ties between the provinces and Cuzco were built on a personal level. When the Inka subjugated a province (normally a former chiefdom, or curacazgo), its leaders were bound to the ruler, not to the state. This personal attachment was strengthened both by valuable gifts and by kinship ties: the Inka offered his sisters, daughters, or other close female relatives to the provincial leaders as wives, or conversely took daughters or sisters of provincial leaders as secondary wives himself. In this way, the kinship organization of the Inkas was strongly interconnected with the political organization of the state (Pärssinen 1992:72). Inka Conquest in Collasuyu: Historical Evidence In my opinion, the best way to verify the historical tradition of the Inka expansion, as narrated in Cuzco, is to compare it with local oral tradition in the provinces, as expressed in quite recently “found” local historical sources, set down in writing in the sixteenth century. Who were the Inkas who supposedly conquered their territories and with whom their leaders established kinship ties? Regarding the so-called early Inkas of Hurin Cuzco (the lower of the Inka moieties in Cuzco), we have some local information concerning Mayta Capac (the so-called fourth Inka) and Capac Yupanqui (the fifth Inka) in Collasuyu. However, their genealogical positions and the historical contexts in which they are mentioned place them in the fifteenth century (Pärssinen 2005:172–174). Thus, these individuals may only have had the same names as the fourth and fifth Inka; or, alternatively, Pachacuti Inka (the so-called ninth Inka; more details in Pärssinen 1992:200–220; Pärssinen 2005:167–177) was their contemporary. The latter explanation would mean that the traditional list of twelve successive Inka kings is not trustworthy. One way or the other, classic chronicles and local historical sources testify that the first Inka ruler about whom we have relatively reliable information is Viracocha Inka (the so-called eighth Inka). He lived in the early fifteenth century and established a chiefdom or small kingdom in Cuzco and the neighboring valleys. We also know that he made a treaty with the Lupaca against the kingdom of the Colla (Pärssinen 2005:175– 177). However, according to the chronology estab-

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Figure 15.2. Map of the Inka expansion. (Redrawn from Pärssinen 1992)

lished by Rowe (1945, 1946)—today still probably the one most cited in the field of Andean studies—the Inka conquest did not pass the Desaguadero River before the reign of Topa Inka, in the last quarter of the fifteenth century. Nevertheless, local testimonies unknown to Rowe in the 1940s reveal that the actual conquest of the Lake Titicaca and Lake Poopó regions was carried out through the efforts of Pachacuti Inka, who is said to have succeeded Viracocha in the first half of the fifteenth century. He personally took part in expeditions against the inhabitants of Collao (one of the interethnic confederations, or hatun apocazgos, formed in Collasuyu; see Pärssinen 2002) and is known to have visited the ancient town of Tiwanaku, south of Lake Titicaca. In fact, during the reign of Pachacuti, the conquests may have extended as far south as the presentday border between Bolivia and Argentina (Pärssinen 2005:177–181).

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According to Sarmiento ([1572] 1943:202–203), Pachacuti Inka sent his sons Amaro Topa and Paucar Usno to march first against Collao and then against Charcas (another interethnic confederation); the natives withdrew to the provinces of Chicha and Chui to fight the Inkas together. There, the local Indians gathered their men into a natural fortress, known even today by the name Oroncota, but they could not withstand the Inka army and were thus colonized by the Inkas. The same version is confirmed by Betanzos ([1557] 1987:120), an independent source, who adds that Paucar Usno died during the battle. Furthermore, local sources attest that the first Inka to whom their forefathers gave obedience in Charcas was [Pachacuti] Yupanqui Inka; after him they gave obedience to Topa Inka (Ayavire y Velasco et al. [1582] 1969:24; Platt et al. 2006:828–846; fig. 15.2). From Charcas, the Inkas began to penetrate into Cuzcotoro, Pocona, and Samaipata in central Bolivia (Capac Ayllu [1569] 2004:96). According to a fairly reliable source, the local Indians even helped Pachacuti’s army to extend the conquest up to the Diaguita in northwestern Argentina, but we are still waiting for this information to be confirmed by an independent source (Colque Guarache [1575] 1981:237, 245–246, 249). In any case, during the reign of Topa Inka, Pachacuti’s successor, the extent of the Inka state almost doubled as a result of wars that stretched to Santiago del Estero in northwestern Argentina and the Maule River in central Chile (Pärssinen 1992:123–124, 128). Somewhat farther northeast, in Antisuyu (one of the four parts of Tawantinsuyu), they pushed forward along the Madre de Dios and Beni Rivers into the Amazonía, near what is today the frontier between Bolivia and Brazil (Siiriäinen and Pärssinen 2003; Pärssinen et al. 2003). Another very interesting case is that of Samaipata (see below): whether or not the Inkas continued their conquests east and northward from there has been hotly debated. The Case of Samaipata According to a map drawn by Rowe (1946), Samaipata was situated on the eastern frontier of Tawantinsuyu, near present-day Santa Cruz de la Sierra (the easternmost portion of Bolivia). Today it is famous for its rock carvings, which have caused it to be declared a

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UNESCO World Cultural Heritage Site and which have been studied intensively as part of a Bolivian-German project led by Albert Meyers (1998:59–86). A khipu-based text of Capac Ayllu ([1569] 2004:96) specifies that Samaipata is situated in Chiriguanas. That, in turn, is a generic name for the area ranging from the Bolivian eastern Andes toward the Chaco plains, inhabited by Guaraní (Chiriguano) and Chané Indians as well as many other groups, such as the Mataco and the as-yet-unclassified Copore and Comiche ( Julien 1997; Pärssinen 2003b:76). The most important source to delineate the history of Samaipata in the times of the Inkas is the chronicle of Father Diego Felipe de Alcaya, which was based on earlier sources collected by his father and finally written down almost as it now stands around 1605. Published in 1906, it was unknown to most Inka specialists until the first half of the twentieth century. According to Alcaya, before the Spaniards conquered Peru, the Inka sent one of his relatives to Samaipata to conquer new provinces. This descendant of the Inka was called Guacané and had permission to use the title of “king” (Alcaya [ca. 1605] 1906:125– 127), which probably is related to the title apo in Quechua. From other sources we know Guacané to be a hereditary name of the leader of the Chané Indians (Manso [1563] 2003a, b). Thus, Guacané was probably born of the marriage between an Inka king and a Chané woman. In any case, Guacané spent some years in Samaipata in order to build a fortress nearby. After this feat, he managed to make an important local chief, Grigota, his ally by giving him fine clothes and other gifts. He and three other local chiefs, one of whom had a Guaraní name, Vitupue, promised obedience to the Inka king in the name of fifty thousand Indians. In this way, Guacané continued his unarmed conquest by sending gifts, thereby bringing a great part of the area of Chiquito— up to the provinces of Jarayes and Itatin, in the presentday border zone between Bolivia and Mato Grosso of Brazil—under his hegemony. This part of Mato Grosso seems to have been inhabited by the Arawakan-speaking Chané Indians and the related Guaná people (Eriksen 2011:82–84). However, the expansion was disrupted by new Guaraní people coming from Brazil. From Jarayes, they turned against Grigota and the local Inka chief Guacané, killing the last-mentioned and imprisoning his brother and two coyas (Quechua for “Inka queens”). Having heard of these incidents, the Inkas of Cuzco

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sent a captain named Turumayo against the Guaraní, and he succeeded in pacifying the region (Alcaya [ca. 1605] 1906:128–132). From other sources we know that Turumayo was also a hereditary name for the Inka chiefs of the mitimaes in Pocona, which is famous for a fortress called Inkallacta (Nordenskiöld 1915; Del Río 2010:204–205). The correspondence between these names is probably not coincidence. At the very least, we have reason to suspect that the mitimaes, colonists sent by the Inka to Pocona, a town near Samaipata, took part in the pacification of the region. These Guaraní attacks against Inka fortresses were also narrated within the Inka tradition of Cuzco. Among the classic chronicles, Sarmiento ([1572] 1943:248– 249) dedicates one chapter to these wars, specifying that all Inkas living in Cuzcotuyo (Cuzcotoro, situated some 150 kilometers south of Samaipata) were massacred in the attack. Thus, Inka Huayna Capac ordered Captain Yasca to counterattack against the Guaraní and rebuild all the destroyed fortresses in the area, which he did.

From an archeological point of view, it is interesting that both local history derived from Samaipata and historical tradition collected in Cuzco (referring to Cuzcotoro) can essentially be confirmed. Archaeological excavations in Samaipata and Cuzcotoro (fig. 15.3) demonstrate that both locations underwent two periods of Inka occupation, accompanied by two different construction periods and the appearance of Guaranístyle ceramics (Alconini 2002, 2004; Meyers 1998; Pärssinen and Siiriäinen 1998). These facts cohere almost exactly with historical tradition, and hence give the chronicles credibility. Possible Inka Incursion to the Pacaás Novos Mountains in Brazil Alcaya does not tell us whether contact with Mato Grosso was reestablished or not, and this possible connection is still unresolved. Nevertheless, Alcaya does

Figure 15.3. Defensive wall in Cuzcotoro. (Photo M. Pärssinen)

Figure 15.4. Location of Pacaás Novos Mountains and other sites mentioned in the text. (Drawn by M. Pärssinen)

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Figure 15.5. The Inka fortress of Las Piedras at the confluence of the Madre de Dios and Beni Rivers. The plan shows the relative distribution of the ceramics found in the forty excavated test pits. (Drawn by A. Siiriäinen)

Figure 15.6. Two Inka-style sherds found at the fortress of Las Piedras. (Photo A. Siiriäinen)

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state that just before the Spanish conquest, the Inkas pushed northward from Samaipata, via the Mamoré River toward the present Guaporé River (Río Manatti), close to the 500-meter-high Pacaás Novos Mountains (fig. 15.4), where they established new Inka settlements. The area is presently a frontier zone between Bolivia and Brazil. Upon returning to Cuzco to relate the news of their discovery, the Inkas learned that the white man had occupied Cuzco (Alcaya [ca. 1605] 1906). Earlier, this information would have been regarded as a product of the imagination. Today, however, we know that the Inkas had indeed built a fortress at the confluence of the Madre de Díos and Beni Rivers (in Antisuyu) in the fifteenth century. Bolivian-Finnish excavations have demonstrated that the structure occupied an area of approximately ten hectares (fig. 15.5). Protected by defensive stone murals and deep ditches, the fort was permanently occupied from ca. cal a.d. 1440 until the end of the Inka period, according to radiocarbon dating. During excavations, Cuzco Inka ceramics (fig. 15.6) were found (Siiriäinen and Pärssinen 2003; Pärssinen et al. 2003).

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Furthermore, the previously mentioned khipu text of Capac Ayllu ([1569] 2004; see also Rowe 1985) confirms that the Inkas actually did occupy this tropical forest zone and reached as far as the Paucarmayo River. By using early sixteenth- and seventeenth-­ century maps, Paucarmayo can be identified as the current Madeira River in Brazil (Maurtua 1906; see also Rowe 1985:211). Thus, both Cuzco and Samaipata tradition give the same indications. Unfortunately, we still lack archaeological evidence to confirm this information. Archaeological and Historical Evidence in Comparison The cases of Samaipata and Cuzcotoro prove that it is possible to trace and confirm historically known occupations and invasions with archaeological evidence. Nevertheless, the distinctive nature of historical and archaeological data should always be kept in mind (see chapters by Smit and Bauer, Covey, and Hayashida). Historically recorded social, religious, economic, or political changes do not immediately affect all material culture that can be detected archaeologically, and vice versa: a rapid change in material culture does not necessarily imply a simultaneous reorganization of social, religious, economic, or political life (see Braudel 1980:25– 54, 64–82). Sometimes this may happen, especially at particularly destructive/creative moments in history, as for instance after natural or human catastrophes. In numerous cases, however, a lack of correlation between archaeological and intangible evidence has been documented (Pärssinen and Siiriäinen 1997). In Mexico, Michael E. Smith (1987) analyzed ethnohistorical and archaeological records of the Aztec expansion and concluded that the supposed artifactual markers of conquest had spread to some provincial regions before the actual incorporation of these regions into the Aztec state. In a similar vein, Edward Calnek (1973) and Thomas Charlton (1973, 1981) have demonstrated that shifts from one period to another do not necessarily occur simultaneously in Mexican historical and archaeological sequences. In fact, in the Andes the situation seems to be quite similar when we look at the chronology of Inka-style ceramics and architecture in relation to that of the historically established Inka expansion.

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Ceramic and Architectural Evidence for the Inka Expansion in Collasuyu Rowe (1944:59) applied direct analogy from historical to archaeological data when establishing his chronology of the Inka expansion. He presupposed that the Imperial Inka–type ceramics outside the district of Cuzco could not date to times before the Inka conquest and thus could not predate the year 1450 in Collasuyu. Although some doubts about the accuracy of this direct analogy have been put forth (see especially Meyers 1975), it is still accepted by many archaeologists. Furthermore, the same analogy is generally applied to architecture as well. During a Finnish-Bolivian multidisciplinary research project in southern Lake Titicaca begun in the late 1980s, we decided to study cultural sequences from the Late Formative Period to the Late Colonial period, and the influence of the Inka state on that particular area. Our basic idea was that we should not mix and confuse methods, but instead utilize the traditional methods of such disciplines as history, archaeology, and anthropology separately in order to form independent datasets. The results were interesting. As mentioned before, by using various independent historical sources, we could confirm that the Inka conquest reached the Titicaca area one generation earlier than Rowe had estimated. Even earlier, during the reign of Viracocha Inka, some contacts were documented, among others the presence of the Colla king, Chuchi Cápac, from the Lake Titicaca area, at the weddings of Viracocha in Cuzco (Pachacuti Yamqui [1613] 1993:217). Nevertheless, this finding does not alter the established chronology significantly. Of greater interest are the various radiocarbon dates we have accumulated from the Lake Titicaca/Pacasa province for sites associated with Inka-style ceramics and funeral monuments. Emergence of the Pacasa Chiefdom after the Collapse of Tiwanaku Civilization In Inka times, Pacasa was the southernmost of the three provinces that formed the Collao confederation around Lake Titicaca. Furthermore, Pacasa was the cradle of the earlier Tiwanaku civilization, whose administrative structure seems to have collapsed around cal a.d. 1000– 1100, with high preference given to the earlier part of the

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period (Owen 2005; Pärssinen 2005, forthcoming). In the archaeological record, the collapse can be observed as the sudden appearance of hundreds of new small settlements all around the Bolivian altiplano (AlbarracínJordan and Mathews 1990; Pärssinen 2005; Stanish 2003). At the same time, Tiwanaku ceramics lost their extremely high quality and their decorative style started to simplify, moving toward basic geometric forms. Nevertheless, on the shores of Lake Titicaca, the Tiwanaku style in ceramics continued to be recognizable until the thirteenth century (Korpisaari 2006:140–142), whereas more to the south, the style as such seems to have already disappeared by the twelfth century (Pärssinen 2005:95–102). Around cal a.d. 1250, the southern Titicaca area experienced an extremely dry and possibly somewhat colder period (Abbott et al. 1997; Thompson et al. 1985), followed by wars and intense building of fortifications from ca. cal a.d. 1250 to 1300 (Pärssinen 2005:103–120). The same period of rearmament can also be observed elsewhere in the central and southern Andes (Arkush 2008; Nielsen 2007; Pärssinen 2005; Stanish 2003). Furthermore, the turn of the thirteenth to the fourteenth century exhibits a sudden expansion of a new ancestral cult characterized by funeral towers, chullpas (Hyslop 1977; Kesseli and Pärssinen 2005), and a new ceramic style called Black-on-Red Ceramic Horizon, accompanied by ceramic design patterns that resemble the Inka style. The Problematic Origin of the Inka Design Style in Ceramics For my book Tawantinsuyu (1992), I analyzed the traditional list of twelve Inka kings of Cuzco and compared it to local evidence, coming to the conclusion that there is no convincing historical evidence for the Inkas who supposedly lived before Viracocha. Nevertheless, the testimony that Viracocha contacted Colla and the Lupaca kings in the Lake Titicaca area before the actual Inka expansion took place is fairly reliable, because it appears that information about these contacts is based on local sources and was gathered independently by Cieza de León ([1553] 1986b:121–128) and Pachacuti Yamqui ([1613] 1993:217). Furthermore, there is no doubt at all about the fact that Pachacuti—or Inka Yupanqui, as he is known in local sources—Topa Inka,

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Huayna Capac, and Huascar were successive kings of the Inka state. Curiously, Mayta Capac and Capac Yupanqui also were known in some provinces, but their deeds can be dated between the reigns of Viracocha and Topa Inka. This means that if the first-mentioned were indeed Inka kings, the traditional chronological list of Inka kings cannot hold true. My supposition, however, is that we should not confuse the internal sociopolitical organization of Cuzco, which was based on groups of royal descendants called panacas, with the political organization of the Inka state. We do not have significant doubts as to the ascendance of only one Inka king at a time at the state level, while at the level of Cuzco, simultaneous Inkas—or at least their active descendant groups—may have participated in local decision-making (see Duviols 1980, 1997; Pärssinen 1992; Zuidema 1995; but compare Hiltunen 1999). When analyzing the early history of the Inkas, we must also remember that the Inkas themselves maintained that they were not the original inhabitants of Cuzco but conquerors coming from nearby Pacari­ tambo or the Lake Titicaca region (see Bandelier 1904; Urton 1990; see chapter 5, by Bauer and Smit). Even the most standardized version of the Inka myth of origin names six different ethnic groups residing in Cuzco before the Inkas and people of Maras and Tambos settled in the valley (Pärssinen 1992:179–185). We need not take these names overly literally; what is important is that during the reign of Viracocha Inka, only an area within a forty-kilometer radius around Cuzco was occupied, and even this ruler had many rivals in the area (Sarmiento [1572] 1943:159–160; see also Cabello [1586] 1951:298–301 and Murúa [1616] 1987:73, who had access to the same khipu-based information). This information correlates with the expansion of so-called Killke pottery. According to current studies, the Killke style appeared around a.d. 1000, soon after the collapse of the Wari state (Covey 2003; McEwan 2005). This stylistic period continued to be dominant until a.d. 1400, when the Imperial Cuzco-Inka ceramic style suddenly appeared in the Cuzco valley and finally replaced Killke as the dominant style (Bauer 1992, 1999; Bauer and Covey 2002; Covey 2003). As to the Inka style in architecture, it may even have appeared half a century earlier, in the mid-fourteenth century (Adamska and Michczynski 1996; Bauer 1992; Bengtsson 1998; Kendall 1985).

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Table 15.1. Radiocarbon Samples

Laboratory ID #

C date (b.p.)

14

Site

Sample Material and Context

Calibrated Date (cal a.d.) 2 sigmas, SHCal04

Ua-2325

Tiquischullpa in Caquiaviri Charred branches on the original floor of the house foundations. Lower stratum 110 cm below surface.

910±90

996 (0.9%) 1006 1015 (94.5%) 1290

Ua-2900

Tiquischullpa in Caquiaviri Charred sticks in lower stratum, 90 cm below surface of the house foundations.

680±60

1274 (95.4%) 1414

Ua-2899

Tiquischullpa in Caquiaviri Charred sticks in middle stratum, 65–70 cm below surface of the house foundations.

660±70

1274 (95.4%) 1433

Ua-2898

Tiquischullpa in Caquiaviri Charred ichu grass in middle stratum, 60 cm below surface of the house foundations.

640±55

1290 (95.4%) 1425

Ua-2324

Tiquischullpa in Caquiaviri Charred wood and manure in middle stratum, 50 cm below surface of the house foundations.

840±70

1046 (6.0%) 1086 1108 (0.9%) 1120 1128 (85.9%) 1314 / 1357 (2.7%) 1381

Ua-2897

Tiquischullpa in Caquiaviri Charred sticks and straw in seal stratum, 40–50 cm below surface of the house foundations

505±70

1320 (4.4%) 1350 1386 (75.6%) 1518 / 1538 (15.4%) 1626

Ua-2904

Pirapi Chico in Achiri

Ichu grass in clay-mortar from a round "Inka-style" funeral tower.

675±60

1276 (95.4%) 1416

Ua-23824

Chosi Kani in Anantuco

Ichu grass in clay-mortar from a round "Inka-style" funeral tower.

595±50

1303 (34.8%) 1364 / 1376 (60.6%) 1446

Gd-7240*

Samaipata

Wooden post from Inka house A, 2nd section.

620±50

1299 (95.4%) 1431

Gd-7237*

Samaipata

Charred vegetation in fireplace of an Inka building, 2nd section.

320±40

1480 (94.2%) 1670 / 1784 (1.2%) 1794

The Ua-samples were analyzed in the Radiocarbon Laboratory of Uppsala University in Sweden using the accelerator method. A halflife of 5,568 years was used, and the result has been corrected to correspond to the d 13C value of –25 percent compared with PDB. The Gd-dates* are taken from Meyers 1998:73. In all these cases, the recommended twenty-four-year reduction as a Southern Hemisphere correction has been taken into consideration (Stuiver and Reimer 1993:215–230; Stuiver et al. 1998:1041–1083). The calibration is based on the OxCal Laboratory’s Southern Hemisphere SHCal04 program with two sigma (95.4 percent) values.

Archaeologists working in Cuzco tend to interpret the change from Killke to Imperial Inka style as a local trend. However, growing evidence of pre-Inka radiocarbon dates for the so-called Inka ceramics found in Collasuyu undermine this theory. In fact, I would like to challenge the interpretation of internal evolution from a stylistic point of view, too. The similarities that have been observed between Killke and Inka ceramics (Bauer 1992, 1999; Rowe 1944:60–62) are also present in Pacajes and Inka ceramics (Pärssinen 2005: figs. 87, 90, 112–114b). Thus, we are dealing with an issue much more complicated than generally thought. One of the most important pieces of evidence for the early appearance of the so-called Inka style outside

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Cuzco comes from excavations of house foundations in Tiquischullpa (figs. 15.7–15.8), situated about fifty kilometers south of Lake Titicaca in Caquiaviri, the ancient Inka capital of the Pacasa province. According to the results of our own excavations in Caquiaviri, the Tiquischullpa house was burned twice. The first fire took place soon after the house was first built, between cal a.d. 1015 and 1290 (two sigma, 94.5 percent), and the second between cal a.d. 1386 and 1518 (two sigma, 75.6 percent; see table 15.1). During the second fire, hard reddish clay formed a seal, locking all the lower deposits beneath it. Between these two burned levels, four dates were obtained. One sample (Ua-2324) was from charred wood and manure and

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gave a calibrated date somewhere between cal a.d. 1046 and 1381 (two sigma, 95.4 percent). Three other samples were taken from small charred sticks and ichu grass, which, in our experience, usually give very consistent dates. Those samples gave calibrated dates, between cal a.d. 1274 and 1433 (two sigma, 95.4 percent), in correct stratigraphic order (table 15.1). Thus, while the first sample may give a too-early date—possibly because older wood was used in the fireplace—all dates below the sealing stratum are older than the supposed Inka conquest as known from historical sources. During the excavations, almost ten thousand potsherds were found. Most importantly, all stratigraphic strata include Inka-style sherds in abundance, even in

Figure 15.7. Plan of the excavated house foundations in Tiquischullpa, Caquiaviri. (Drawn by R. Kesseli)

Figure 15.8. Profile A–C/6 of the house foundations in Tiquischullpa. (Drawn by R. Kesseli)

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the stratum above the burned seal. The clearest changes in style over the period of this structure (most notable after the last burning) was the partial disappearance of the orange base color in polychrome pottery and a growing abundance of bicolor Black-on-Red style; otherwise the chronological change was gradual, from the bottom to the upper stratum: from late Tiwanakurelated sherds toward the so-called Inka-Pacajes style on the surface. Among the Inka-style sherds, Cuzco Polychrome A and B as well as Inkan black rhomboids, “chessboard,” and “hourglass” designs are common (fig. 15.9). As to form, the most common shapes are open bowls and flat plates (quite often with a bird-form handle). Also, aryballoid jars (normally without peaked bottoms) and quero beakers were abundant. Nevertheless, as the ceramic paste reveals, most sherds seem to be local Titicaca-­ based high-quality production containing

Figure 15.9. Ceramics found below the seal stratum of the house foundations in Tiquischullpa. (Drawn by M. Pärssinen)

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quartz, albite, vermiculite, and sometimes mica (Pärssinen and Siiriäinen 1997; Pärssinen 2005:186–208). This evidence demonstrates that so-called Inka ceramics may have been in full use in Caquiaviri nearly a hundred years before the historically described conquest of the fifteenth century. Furthermore, this earlier dating is in accordance with the results obtained from northern Chile. There, according to thermoluminescence datings, Inka-style and Inka-Pacajes (Saxamar) ceramics appeared in the late thirteenth or early fourteenth century (Múñoz and Chacama 1988, 2006; Schiappacasse et al. 1991). Thus, we are faced with the fact that the appearance of Inka ceramics does not correlate with the historically recorded conquest either in the Lake Titicaca area or in northern Chile. Furthermore, we have similar results related to ceramics findings from northwestern Argentina. Some motifs traditionally associated with the Inka that were found in Caquiaviri (Pärssinen and Siiriäinen 1997:265) date to the turn of the fourteenth century (Gifford 2003:103–168). In fact, these dates have been somewhat confusing, because in northwestern Argentina there seems to have been local development in Inka-related styles such as Famabalasto, Yavi Chico, and Casa Morada (known also as Inka-Paya), but later, in the fifteenth-century Inka period, the distribution of this pottery was state-controlled (González and Tarragó 2004; Williams 2004). The same happened in Pacasa and northern Chile with the Inka-Pacajes style, or in Yampará, near present-day Sucre, with the local PrestoPuno style (Pärssinen 1997). All of the aforementioned styles seem to have local roots, but later these highquality products were distributed through production centers established by Inka officials (see D’Altroy et al. 1998; Murra 1978). Thus, if the Inka style appeared in Cuzco ca. a.d. 1400 and the historically recorded Inka expansion started in Collasuyu around a.d. 1450, how might we explain the aforementioned dates? Are Inka ceramics found in Cuzco older than presently available radiocarbon dates indicate, whereby the conquest would have begun earlier than expected? Or did the Inkas exchange goods peacefully with their neighbors long before the conquest took place? Perhaps the dates from dispersed locations are still not precise enough and convincing? Or could it be that the Inkas adopted local styles around year 1400 and only then began spreading them as their own?

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The Emergence of the Inka Architectural Style Before continuing, it would be wise to take a look at the architectural markers of the Inka expansion. In fact, what has been said of Inka ceramics seems to hold true also with stylistic markers of so-called Inka architecture, especially as related to funeral towers called chull­ pas, abundant in the Collasuyu district from Cuzco to southern Bolivia and northern Chile. These funeral towers have been generally estimated to date from between cal a.d. 1250 and 1600 (Kesseli and Pärssinen 2005:379–410). Some of them are made of Inka-type stone blocks, and it has been proven that all dated quadrangular and rectangular Inka-style chullpas correspond to the Inka and Colonial periods, ca. a.d. 1440/1450 to 1550 (Kesseli and Pärssinen 2005:399–400; Pärssinen 2005:153–155). Nevertheless, the oldest round Inkastyle funeral towers seem to precede the historically mentioned Inka conquest. A sample (Ua-2904; see table 15.1) taken from ichu grass mixed in the interior clay-mortar of an eight-meter-high stone tower in Pirapi Chico (fig. 15.10), situated in Achiri, Pacasa (Pacajes), gives a radiocarbon date of 675±60 b.p., which, when calibrated, gives a calendar date between a.d. 1276 and 1416. Similarly, we have another sample (Ua-23824), taken from a 4.10-meter-high stone tower in Chosi Kani, situated in Anantuco, Pacasa, that gives 595±50 b.p., corresponding to cal a.d. 1303 to 1446 (table 15.1).

When comparing these dates to the Inka style markers derived from Cuzco, we can see that the first architectural evidence of the Inka style in that area is more or less contemporaneous with Pacasa. Nevertheless, in the Cuzco area the oldest dates are from wooden lintels that may have been reused, while in Pacasa the dates are from short-lived ichu grass. Thus, at the moment we cannot say for sure where the style was older. In any case, comparing these dates with Inka-style ceramics, it is somewhat surprising to note that the Inka ceramic style does indeed seem to be older in the Lake Titicaca area, in northern Chile, and in northwestern Argentina than in the Cuzco valley. More radiocarbon dates are necessary to ascertain the veracity of these conclusions. However, if this evidence is confirmed, it means that the Inkas may have imitated the ceramic style of southern areas for their own use, or that some Inkas really did migrate from the Lake Titicaca area to the Cuzco region, as described in Inka myths. As concerns architectural features, it is possible that the people of Cuzco maintained close contact with the Titicaca area long before it was politically incorporated into the Inka state. Thus, in this case, the people residing in the Titicaca area imitated the Inka style long before the actual conquest took place. Nevertheless, it is good to remember that both the chronicles written in Cuzco and local sources written in the provinces of Lupaca and Pacasa confirm that many of the masons who built Cuzco came from the Lake

Figure 15.10. Eight-meter-high funeral tower in Pirapi Chico. (Photo M. Pärssinen)

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Titicaca region (Cieza [1553] 1986a:284; Sarmiento [1572] 1943:199; Diez de San Miguel [1567] 1964:39, 80, 92, 106, 116, 204; Cabeza de Vaca [1586] 1885:71; Cobo [1653] 1964:82; see also Gasparini and Margolies 1980:11; Murra 1988:72; Isbell 2001:323). No matter which explication is correct, the fact is that the archeologically observed ceramic and architectural period in material culture does not necessarily correlate with the historically recorded conquest, as has been generally supposed. In southern Bolivia, central Chile, and northwestern Argentina, the “new” historical chronology presented in this article is otherwise corroborated by archaeology. In Samaipata, we have two dates relating to Inka buildings: 620±50 and 320±40 b.p., corresponding to cal a.d. 1299–1431 (95.4 percent) and cal a.d. 1480–1670 (94.2 percent) (Meyers 1998:73; calibrated with two-sigma probability by SHCal04; see table 15.1). Although the first-mentioned sample is prior to the historically known Inka period, we should bear in mind that the sample is from a wooden post and thus not fully comparable to the grass samples from other places. Nevertheless, various calibrated samples of the early Inka contexts in Oroncota and Cuzcotoro indicate that the Inkas may indeed have occupied this part of southern Bolivia already sometime between cal a.d. 1415 and 1450 (Alconini 2002:224; Pärssinen et al. 2003:40–49; Pärssinen and Siiriäinen 2003:191–192). These dates are somewhat earlier than I would have expected. Nevertheless, the samples derived from the rectangular Inka buildings in Caranga, Caracara, and Atacama territories accord well with our new Inka period chronology (Cruz 2009; Kesseli and Pärssinen 2005:400–401; Pärssinen 2003a: table 2). Continuities from the Late Tiwanaku to Early Colonial Periods What is perhaps most surprising is the recent discovery of late Tiwanaku ceramic portrait vessels (cal a.d. 1000) on Pariti, a small island in southern Lake Titicaca. Some portraits show the headdresses resembling chuco-hats described in colonial texts and seen also in Guaman Poma’s ([1615:171] 1987:169) drawings (Korpisaari 2006: fig. 5.21; Korpisaari and Pärssinen 2005: photos 17, 19–20). Furthermore, according to various pictures drawn by Guaman Poma ([1615:272, 295, 326] 1987:270, 293, 324), wide, turban-like caps

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were worn by another ethnic group in Collao, probably the one he refers to as Pukina (Puquina) Collas. Again, strikingly similar turban-like headdresses were used in the Tiwanaku period (fig. 15.11). The most important object in this collection is a portrait that shows a helmet (fig. 15.12) nearly identical to those worn by the Inka rulers in Guaman Poma’s (1987 [1615]) and Martín de Murúa’s (1962–64 [1616]) drawings (fig. 15.13). In front, the helmet even has a mark of a lost object in the very same place where the Inkas fixed the mascapaycha, a badge of office and symbol of rulership. Such helmets are also depicted on some early Colonial period wooden queros (Wichrowska and Ziółkowski 2000) as well as in the royal portraits of the Inka kings by Antonio de Herrera ([1615] 1991). The Pariti finds appear to be more or less direct antecedents for the aforementioned Inka headdresses in the Lake Titicaca region—four hundred years before the historically known Inka conquests took place. It is beyond dispute that the Inkas appropriated the sacred Lake Titicaca for their own purposes, regarding it as a mythic place of creation and—together with and/or as an alternative to Pacaritambo—as the place where the first Inkas were created. Significantly, the Inkas seem to have appropriated, at the same time, certain iconographic motifs typical of the Lake Titicaca region: according to Guaman Poma ([1615] 1987:79–80), the Inkas had two sets of symbols that resembled European coats of arms. The first of these displayed (1) the Sun, (2) the Moon, (3) Chuqui Illa Villca (a thunder deity associated with the planet Venus; see Ziółkowski 1997:231), and (4) symbols of the Inka creation in Tanbo Toco. These were symbols of the Inkas whose origin was in Pacari­ tambo, and this symbolic complex showed that the Inka ruler was considered the son of the Sun (his father) and the Moon (his mother), and that the planet Venus was considered his brother (and, in some other contexts, his son; see Pärssinen 1992:181–187). The second Inka “coat of arms” displayed (1) a bird, (2) a jaguar and a chonta palm, (3) the mascapaycha, and (4) two large amaro snakes. Guaman Poma ([1615] 1987:83–85) states that the Inkas associated with these symbols originally came from the Lake Titicaca area and Tiwanaku, appeared later in Tanbo Toco of Pacaritambo, and finally entered Cuzco. The relatives of the Inkas who had remained in Collao were called Puquina Collas and considered unworthy because they had not followed the others to Cuzco. As a result, the Puquina Collas were only allowed to use textile ear ornaments,

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Figure 15.11. Possible representation of a Pukina Colla man among the Tiwanaku portrait vessels from Pariti. (Photo M. Pärssinen)

Figure 15.12. Man with helmet, from the Tiwanaku portrait vessel collection of Pariti. (Photo M. Pärssinen)

Figure 15.13. Representation of Inka Huayna Capac with helmet. (After Guaman Poma [1616] 1987)

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Figure 15.14. Representation of a rattlesnake on a Pariti vessel. (Photo M. Pärssinen)

not the ones made of precious metals that were replete with symbolic value (see also Pärssinen forthcoming). Here my aim is not to analyze the historical value of these statements but to emphasize the ideological connection between Cuzco and the Titicaca area, including Tiwanaku. In Tiwanaku iconography, the feline, avian, and snake symbols are among the most represented (Makowski 2002). Guaman Poma mentions these very same symbols in association with the Inkas coming from the Lake Titicaca area. On the helmet of one portrait excavated on Pariti, as we saw above, a place for a mascapaycha is clearly shown (see fig. 15.12). Is this only coincidence, or are we dealing with real pre-Inkan contacts or, conversely, prototypes or inspirational sources of later Inka symbols? Furthermore, while many independent sources mention snakes among the most important royal symbols of the Inka (Pärssinen forthcoming), at the same time they are said to

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have been the principal god of the Puquina (Bouysse-­ Cassagne and Bouysse 1988:90–92; see also La Grasserie 1898:13), and, indeed, snakes are one of the main subjects of Pariti modeled ceramics (Korpisaari and Pärssinen 2005; Pärssinen forthcoming; fig. 15.14). In general, when it comes to ceramics and architecture, the connections between Cuzco and Titicaca appear to be so strong that, finally, the hypothesis of stylistic influences moving from the Lake Titicaca area to Cuzco is such an obvious possibility that it should be taken seriously (see chapters by Cerrón-Palomino and Shinoda). Consequently, these findings show that a direct correlation between historically determined expansion and the archaeologically attested appearance of the so-called Inka style is problematic. It really is possible that the Inkas borrowed some stylistic aspects of the Lake Titicaca cultures and incorporated them into their own imperial style.

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Conclusion From the Collasuyu perspective, the varied lines of evidence presented in this study indicate that the chiefdoms inhabiting the Cuzco region in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries probably represented different competing groups, but they shared a dominant ceramic style known as Killke. Some decades before a.d. 1400, a group called the Inkas had attained a hegemonic position in the region. According to Guaman Poma, the Inkas had a double origin: some arrived from Pacaritambo, near Cuzco, and others from the Lake Titicaca region. The tenability of this information has not been confirmed. Nevertheless, pre-conquest relations between Cuzco and Lake Titicaca are more than probable. According to Sarmiento ([1572] 1943; see also Cabello [1586] 1951 and Murúa [1616] 1962–1964), during the reign of Viracocha Inka, probably at the beginning of the fifteenth century, the area of the Inka chiefdom extended from thirty to fifty kilometers outside the heart of Cuzco. This early frontier corresponds quite exactly with the distribution area of the Killke ceramics and, furthermore, with the starting points of the main suyu divisions of the state. During the early reign of Pachacuti Inka, in the first half of the fifteenth century, the rapid Inka expansion reached Oroncota and Cuzcotoro in southern Bolivia and possibly even extended beyond the current frontier of Bolivia and Argentina, continuing to Chiriguana, Tucumán, and Chile during the succeeding reign of Topa Inka. The rapid expansion can be attributed to the existence of former chiefdoms and powerful chiefs or “kings” with whom the Inkas could establish hegemonic alliances and kinship ties (D’Altroy 2002; Pärssinen 1992). Sarmiento ([1572] 1943:191) claims that the Titicaca region and the area down through Are­ quipa and Atacama were, before the Inkas, under the leadership of Chuchi Cápac, king of the Colla. I have not found independent evidence to support this claim. However, Aymara chiefdoms did indeed form military confederations against their enemies. The best known of these confederations are Collao and Charcas. The first included the Colla, Lupaca, and Pacasa provinces, and the second one, Charca, Caracara, Sora, Quillaca, Caranga, Chicha, Chuy, and Yampará (Pärssinen 2002; Platt et al. 2006). Thus, after Collao was subjugated, the next decisive battle was fought in Oroncota against the Charcas confederation. The Inkas finally won the battle

Shimada_5545_15-pp3.indd 280

and hence, the entire Aymara-speaking altiplano was suddenly allied with the Inka king. This tactic did not work with the more loosely organized Mapuche or Guaraní, causing permanent and intractable difficulties in establishing the limits of the Inka state. Furthermore, it seems that for the Inkas, what mattered was not the land but the people. Thus, when the people moved, the frontier moved as well. This is evident in the area situated between the Mapuche and Bio Bio valleys in the south, as well as in Chiriguanas, near Samaipata and Cuzcotoro. As discussed above, Samaipata and Cuzcotoro were attacked by the Gua­ raní, causing the abandonment of many settlements, but an Inka presence in the area was reestablished. Furthermore, the conquest was aimed at pushing forward from Samaipata toward and over the present border of Bolivia and Brazil. However, we still lack crucial archaeological evidence that could indicate whether this objective was reached. Hence, this is one of the lines of investigation to be followed in future. From a chronological point of view, it seems firmly established that during the reign of Pachacuti, the Inka state stretched out to somewhere between southern Bolivia and northwestern Argentina. According to the traditional chronology established by Rowe (1945, 1946) and based on the estimation of Cabello ([1586] 1951), the reign of Pachacuti began in a.d. 1438, so there may still be a gap between radiocarbon dates and historical chronology. Current dating indicates that the Inkas reached Cuzcotoro around a.d. 1438. If this is confirmed in future, we should place the beginning of the Inka expansion somewhat earlier, probably around 1420. We may also ask whether one Inka generation, corresponding to some twenty years between Viracocha and Pachacuti, is missing in the traditional and established Inka history. This is a possibility that should be looked into in the coming years. This study has demonstrated that making a direct analogy between different disciplines may cause problems. The idea that the Inka ceramic and architectural styles appeared in present-day Bolivia only after the Inka conquest has been firmly challenged, as has the idea that the development of Inka ceramic style was a purely internal process in the Cuzco valley. In sum, I argue that in a genuinely multidisciplinary study, records of different disciplines should be analyzed separately to yield their own independent conclusions before correlation and interdisciplinary analy-

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sis are attempted. As Smith (1987:38) has asserted, “When the two records are compared, one should not confuse any resulting composite models with the independent primary data sets.” In other words, when comparing data sets from one discipline to those of another, we should also analyze and weigh their comparability. If we use data sets of one discipline as models of analogy, we should also remember the words of Max Black (1962:223): “Any would-be scientific use of an analogue model demands independent confirmation. Analogue models furnish plausible hypotheses, not proofs.” In a sense, this is an extension of Galton’s famous problem: whether our units of analysis really offer comparable independent evidence (see Hammel 1980; Peel 1987). Of course, this problem in human and social sciences is relative, depending on the proximity of the methods used—and on how well we are prepared to study the question at hand. Furthermore, in a synchronic structural analysis, Galton’s problem may appear different than in a diachronic structural analysis or when analyzing particular cultural, social, or historical processes. Nevertheless, many issues related to multidisciplinary and interdisciplinary methodologies should be discussed more thoroughly. In this area, we still have a lot of work to do.

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“Cronología por termoluminiscencia de la cerámica del extremo norte de Chile: Primera parte.” In Actas del XI Congreso Nacional de Arqueología Chilena, 11–15 Octu­

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bre de 1988, ed. H. Niemeyer F., 2:43–59. Santiago: Museo Nacional de Historia Natural/Sociedad Chilena de Arqueología.

Urton, Gary

1990 The History of a Myth: Pacariqtambo and the Origin of the Inkas. Austin: University of Texas Press.

Siiriäinen, Ari, and Martti Pärssinen

Vizcarra, Diego

2003

(1574) 1967  “Información sobre los curacazgos de Leimebamba y Cochabamba, por don Diego Vizcarra, corregidor de Cajamarquilla.” Ed. W. Espinoza Soriano. Revista Histórica 30:304–325.

“��������������������������������������������������� The Amazonian Interest of the Inca State (Tawantinsuyu).” Baessler-Archiv 49:45–78.

Smith, Michael E.

1987

”The Expansion of the Aztec Empire: A Case Study in the Correlation of Diachronic Archaeological and Ethnohistorical Data.” American Antiquity 52:37–54.

Stanish, Charles

2003

Ancient Titicaca: The Evolution of Complex Society in Southern Peru and Northern Bolivia. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Stehberg, Rubén, and Arturo Rodríguez

1995

“Ofrendas mapuche-incaicas en el Cerro Tren Tren de Doñihue, Valle de Cachapoal.” Tawantinsuyu: An International Journal of Inka Studies 1:29–35.

von Hagen, Victor Wolfgang

1961

Realm of the Incas. Rev. ed. New York: Mentor Books.

Wedin, Åke

1963

La cronología de la historia incaica. Madrid: Insula.

Wichrowska, Oriana, and Mariusz S. Ziółkowski

2000 (eds.)  Iconografía de los keros. Boletín de la Misión Arquelógica Andina 5. Warsaw: University of Warsaw. Williams, Verónica

2004 “Poder estatal y cultura material en el Kollasuyu.” Boletín de Arqueología PUCP 8:209–245.

Stuiver, M., and P. J. Reimer

Ziółkowski, Mariusz S.

1993 “Extended 14C Data Base and Revised CALIB 3.0 14C Age Calibration Program.” Radiocarbon 1993:215–230 [revised CALIB 4.2 (1998–2000)].

1997

Stuiver, M., P. J. Reimer, E. Bard, J. W. Beck, G. S. Burr, K. A. Hughen et al.

Zuidema, R. Tom

1998

“IntCal98 Radiocarbon Age Calibration, 24,000–0 cal BP.” Radiocarbon 40:1041–1083.

1986

Thompson, L. G., E. Mosley-Thompson, J. F. Bolzan, and B. R. Koci

1985

“A 1500-Year Record of Tropical Precipitation in Ice Cores from the Quelccaya Ice Cap, Peru.” Science 229:971–973.

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1995

La guerra de los Wawqi: Los objetivos y los mecanismos de la rivalidad dentro de la élite inka, siglos XV–XVI. Quito: Abya-Yala. “Inka Dynasty and Irrigation: Another Look at Andean Concepts of History.” In Anthropological History of Andean Polities, ed. John V. Murra, Nathan Wachtel, and Jacques Revel, 177–200. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. El sistema de ceques del Cuzco: La organización social de la capital de los Incas. Trans. Ernesto Salazar. Lima: PUCP.

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C H A P T E R 16

Reading the Material Record of Inka Rule Style, Polity, and Empire on the North Coast of Peru Frances M. Hayashida and Natalia Guzmán

The appearance of Cuzco symbols in the provinces may be associated with wholly different phenomena than our crude methods have been able to detect. Our preoccupation with identifying Cuzco influence on the basis of the presence of imperial symbols could be misleading. Though we have only begun to unravel the complex interrelation between Inca styles and local material traditions, we can already see that we must go beyond the assessment of the penetration of Inca styles if we want to understand Inca control. Julien 1993:228

Historical sources indicate that the Inka ruled the Peruvian north coast, an area rich in people and resources, indirectly, through powerful local lords who had previously experienced imperial rule under the Chimú, who had dominated the coastal valleys before their defeat by the Inka in circa a.d. 1470 (Ramírez 1990; Rowe 1948; fig. 16.1). The archaeological record can be used as an independent source of evidence to complement, assess, and refine these historical interpretations. In this chapter, we discuss recent archaeological evidence for Inka policies on the north coast as well as factors that affect interpretations of the material record of Inka rule. These are: (1) the relative paucity of sites and artifacts with clear Inka attributes, (2) the apparent conservatism of local styles from the Chimú through Inka periods, and (3) the manufacture of pottery in north coastal styles in Inka imperial workshops. This third point leads to a broader discussion of the production, use, and meaning of ethnic styles in Tawantinsuyu. The Spread of Inka Styles Inka material culture from Cuzco can be characterized as visually bold and stylistically standardized (see chapters 10 and 12, by Cummins, and Nair and Protzen; also Gasparini and Margolies 1984; Hyslop 1990; Rowe 1944, 1979). For example, Cuzco Polychrome pottery draws on a limited range of forms and geometric designs. As Rowe (1944:48) notes, “They are the only Peruvian pottery types so consistent that a whole jar can confidently be reconstructed from a single sherd.” Inka-style artifacts and architecture spread throughout the Andes with the growth of the empire and were created by state artisans as well as emulated by local populations (Menzel 1959; Morris 1988, 1991; Rowe 1992).

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tion (whether local leaders existed who could fill state administrative positions), the strategic or economic importance of the region, and the potential costs (rebellion) versus benefits (access to local resources, lower administrative costs) of leaving local leaders in place. Inka Archaeology on the North Coast

Figure 16.1. Inka sites on the north coast mentioned in the text. (After Guzmán and Rojas 2003)

They are particularly evident at provincial administrative centers, where local populations assembled to pay their tribute obligations, witness and participate in state-sponsored ceremonies, and receive hospitality in the form of food and drink. In these settings, and through the use of visually distinctive and repetitive symbols, the Inka conveyed a clear message of Cuzco’s presence and power (Morris 1991). At the same time, the prevalence of materials in state styles and their adherence to Cuzco canons vary both at Inka centers and in their adoption by subject populations. Explanations for this variation have rested on the length of Inka rule (where longer rule is expected to result in a greater spread of state styles), the degree of local acceptance of the Inka, the kinds of messages that the Inka transmitted through different media, and whether control was direct or indirect (D’Altroy, Lorandi, and Williams 1998; Hyslop 1993; Menzel 1959; Morris 1988, 1995; Raffino and Stehberg 1999; Rivera 1978). Directness of rule was in turn related to the previous degree of sociopolitical integra-

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Researchers have often remarked on the scarcity of Inka architecture and artifacts on the north coast (Kroeber 1930; Netherly 1988b; Rowe 1948:46; Tschauner 2001:640–641; Wilson 1988:70–71; Willey 1953:322, 419). This paucity has been attributed to various factors, such as the late conquest of the area, reliance on local lords, the existence of a previously strong building tradition (Hyslop 1993:339–340), and the respect that the Inka may have felt for their former rivals (Rowe 1948:46). At the same time, we must be careful not to confuse the low frequency of state styles here or in other parts of the empire with an absence of Inka claims to local resources and labor. As Julien (1993) has noted, some regions that were substantially reorganized by the Inka (such as the area near Huánuco Pampa occupied by the Chupachu polity) show little Cuzco influence in their material culture (see also Thompson 1967 and Morris and Thompson 1985: ch. 8). Historical sources tell us that as Inka subjects, the people of the north coast served their mit’a duty (rotational, periodic labor service levied on able-bodied individuals) on state fields (Ramírez 1990:522–525) and building projects (Netherly 1988a) and at tampus (state installations established along Inka roads to monitor traffic and/or administer the surrounding areas [Espinoza Soriano 1967]), though they were exempted from service in the Inka military, perhaps because of security concerns (D’Altroy 2002:221). In addition, north coastal polities were required to provide skilled labor for the state, such as potters, metalworkers, and irrigation specialists, who were relocated to other provinces (Cieza [1553: fol. 70v] 1986:170; Espinoza Soriano 1969–1970, 1975:256; Rostworowski 1990; Zasada 1985). When the Inka defeated the Chimú, they acquired a vast region rich in natural and agricultural resources with a large population (including many skilled workers) already organized to provide tribute to imperial rulers. The Chimú Empire extended more than one thousand kilometers along the north coast of Peru (Moore

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and Mackey 2008). As they increased their territory, the Chimú built or expanded roads and irrigation systems, imposed imperial administrative centers, reorganized regional populations, took over mines and metallurgical workshops, and captured artisans who were brought back to Chan Chan, their capital in the Moche valley (Hayashida 2006; Heyerdahl et al. 1995; Keatinge and Conrad 1983; Koschmieder and Vega-Centeno 1996; Mackey 1987, 2004, 2006, 2009; Mackey and Klymyshyn 1990; Montenegro 2010; Moore and Mackey 2008; Shimada 1990; J. Topic 1990; T. L. Topic 1990; Tschauner 2001). At the same time, in some areas local conquered elites were incorporated into the Chimú administrative hierarchy, or rule was shared between imperial and local leaders (Mackey 2009). While the Inka disempowered the Chimú ruling families, they took advantage of the existing political and physical imperial infrastructure, which also contributes to the appearance of a minimal Inka state presence. Two observations should be made: the first, though seemingly obvious, is that the use of existing infrastructure should not be equated or confused with a lack of state control since Chimú exploitation and administration of the regions they conquered are well documented. It is probably more accurate to say that control was transferred, rather than to conclude that it was lacking. Second, the Inka modified existing infrastructure and made changes to the political economy in ways that we are only beginning to understand. A number of these changes can be seen at the site of Farfán (fig. 16.2), which is located in the extensive and highly productive Jequetepeque valley at the crossroads of the coastal trunk road and a lateral road leading up to Cajamarca, a major Inka center in the northern highlands. Through her excavations, Mackey (2003, 2006, 2010) has demonstrated that the site—which began as a Sicán (also referred to as Lambayeque) and later a Chimú administrative center—was expanded under the Inka, who built three new compounds and modified existing compounds. A three-tiered social hierarchy was reflected in residential architecture, which is neither Inka nor Chimú in design but instead what Mackey defines as “conciliatory,” indicating Inka efforts to appease local elites and facilitate rule. Pottery at Farfán is predominantly Chimú-Inka, showing great technical and stylistic continuity with pre-Inka Chimú pottery (e.g., the persistence of reduced wares) but with the addition of new features that are not

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derived from Cuzco, such as an increased use of wide strap handles, and a change in the lip shape of plates, from round to square. The second most frequent pottery style is Provincial Inka, which was influenced by Cuzco in form and design. Inka flared-rim jars (also referred to as “Cuzco bottles” or aríbalos; fig. 16.3), and bird-handled plates, often with polychrome geometric designs derived from Cuzco, were found at the site.1 Other Inka features included an apparent yupana, or Inka accounting device (see chapter 9, by Urton), which was found incised into the floor of one of the structures. It may have been associated with keeping track of tributary goods flowing into and out of the site; notably, the capacity of storage facilities doubled here under Inka rule. Contents of storage structures included tools for weaving and pottery making; an area dedicated to producing large, open-mouthed vessels (tinajas), known to be associated with the cooling and straining of chicha,

Figure 16.2. The site of Farfán in the Jequetepeque valley. (After Mackey 2009: fig. 18.3)

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or maize beer, was also excavated. The high frequency of female burials at Farfán, many associated with weaving tools, suggests the presence of aqlla at the site. Aqlla were women, carefully selected from conquered polities, in permanent service to the state. They were relocated to Cuzco and provincial centers, where they brewed beer and wove. Based on isotopic studies of their bones and the predominance of Chimú-Inka pottery in their tombs, these aqlla were north coastal in origin (Mackey 2003, 2010). A final Inka feature at the site is an inferred usnu platform, found within one of the compounds on the perimeter of an internal patio. The usnu in Cuzco was a basin/drain for receiving liquid offerings associated with a stone (serving as a gnomon) in the main plaza (Meddens 1997; Zuidema 1980). At Inka provincial administrative centers, the usnu were associated with a platform at the center of or on one side of the plaza,

Figure 16.3. The Inka flared-rim jar form and a Chimú-Inka blackware flared-rim jar from the collections of the Museo Nacional de Arqueología y Etnografía Heinrich Brüning.

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although in many cases only the platform is evident and the basin/drain either was removed or was never present (Hyslop 1990: ch. 3). The platform elevated ritual actors (such as Inka elite) and made them easily visible to the assembled audience/participants; it also provided them with a clear view of people and activities in the plaza. Usnu platforms may have also served as military reviewing stands for visiting Inka royals (Hyslop 1990: ch. 3). As Mackey (2010:244) notes, it is curious that the usnu platform at Farfán is located in an interior patio and not in the main plaza of the compound. At the same time, larger-scale and more public ceremonial gatherings may have been associated with mounds adjacent to the compounds, where evidence for feasting has been found. Not surprisingly, the Inka created or modified other sites along the coastal trunk road. In an early (1977) study, Conrad examined the Inka occupation of Chi­

Figure 16.4. Map of Chiquitoy Viejo in the Chicama valley. (After Conrad 1977: fig. 3)

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Figure 16.5. Inka sites in Lambayeque mentioned in the text.

Figure 16.6. Plan of Tambillo de Zaña (after von Hagen 1976:189 and 1/3/2003 Google Earth image with measurements taken in the field by the second author for the Proyecto Qhapaq Ñan). Note that the majority of the site has since been destroyed by the expansion of an industrial agricultural project, as can be seen in a Google Earth image taken on 11/2/2010.

quitoy Viejo (fig. 16.4) in the Chicama valley. The site is adjacent to, but not aligned with, the coastal trunk road. A narrow road branches off from the trunk road and leads to the inner court of the main compound; an outer court surrounds the inner on three sides. Excavations revealed a residential area for retainers in the outer court, and an administrative area and a badly looted burial platform in the inner court. Chimú-­ influenced pottery predominated at the site, although Inka-­influenced sherds comprised more than 20 percent of the pottery associated with the burial platform (Conrad 1977:14). Conrad posits that the site housed a state administrator of north coastal origin who was responsible for monitoring the movement of goods on the trunk road.

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Several studies have examined the coastal trunk road and associated sites in the Lambayeque region (Guzmán and Rosas 2003; Hayashida 1999; Helsley 1980; Hyslop 1984; Hyslop and Urrutia 1980; Kroeber 1930; Tschauner 2001). Lambayeque is an extensive and productive area encompassing four contiguous coastal valleys (from south to north: Zaña, Chancay [which splits into the Reque and Lambayeque], Leche, and Motupe). The agricultural and mineral resources of Lambayeque and its large population were the source of wealth for the powerful pre-Chimú Sicán state (Shimada 2000). In the late pre-Hispanic period, Lambayeque was organized into parcialidades (also referred to as señoríos), polities led by paramounts who likely served

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Figure 16.7. Plan and current view of Posope Tambo. (After Tschauner 2001: fig. C-18)

Figure 16.8. Plan of Tambo Real. (After Helsley 1980)

Figure 16.9. Map of La Viña, based on air photo tracing.

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Figure 16.10. Google Earth satellite image (from 7/7/2010) of the La Viña plaza and adjacent buildings. Inka road (badly damaged by modern traffic) crosses the plaza.

Figure 16.11. Map of 2839X01 on the Pampa de Chaparrí.

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dual roles as ethnic lords and local administrators for the Inka (Netherly 1990; Ramírez 1985, 1990; Rostworowski 1961). On or near the road between the Zaña and Leche valleys, approximately seventy-five sites have been identified, primarily through pedestrian survey carried out by the second author. Eighteen have evidence of an Inka-period occupation; four were tampus that have also been examined by other researchers (Brüning [1922] 1989; Guzmán and Rosas 2003; Hayashida 1999; Helsley 1980; Hyslop 1984; Hyslop and Urrutia 1980; Kosok 1965; Kroeber 1930; Tschauner 2001; von Hagen 1976; fig. 16.5). From south to north, these four tampus are Tambillo de Zaña (fig. 16.6), Posope Tambo (fig. 16.7), Tambo Real (fig. 16.8), and La Viña (figs. 16.9, 16.10). Two other tampus mentioned in historic accounts (Motupe in the north and Collique on the south bank of the Chancay) have not been confirmed archaeologically; it is possible that the Motupe tampu is the site of Apurlec; the Collique tampu has probably been obliterated by modern agriculture. An additional Inka tampu (Site 2839X01; fig. 16.11) has been documented (Hayashida 2006) on a road that descends from the upper Chancay valley at the point where it enters the Pampa de Chaparrí, an extensive irrigated plain between the Chancay and Leche river valleys. The site also marks the location where the massive intervalley Racarumi, or Ynalche, canal enters the pampa, reflecting an imperial interest in supervising agricultural production in this area. North coastal–style pottery predominates at all of the sites, and none, except for La Viña, exhibits clear Inka architectural features. Tambillo de Zaña, Posope Tambo, and Tambo Real are relatively small, with Tambo Real the largest at ca. 6.6 hectares. Tambo Real (fig. 16.8), which has been described by Helsley (1980) and Shimada (1981), straddles but is not perfectly aligned with the road. It is divided into three sectors, with the road passing through the central sector, which appears to be a plaza. Both north coastal and Cuzcoinfluenced pottery was found at the site, and there is evidence for a pre-Inka occupation. Several pottery workshops, which produced both north coastal and Inka forms, were located near the tampu. The site is on the south bank of the Leche River, an area associated with the powerful Túcume parcialidad. The administrative seat of the parcialidad, a site called Túcume or El

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Purgatorio, is 14 kilometers west of the tampu and is discussed below. The site of La Viña (fig. 16.9), on the north bank of the Leche valley, may have been the seat of the lord of Jayanca. At over 70 hectares in area, it dwarfs the other Inka sites on the trunk road in Lambayeque, and likely served as an imperial administrative center. The site of La Viña was first published by Brüning ([1922] 1989) and later by Kosok (1965), but until the 1980s its use as a grazing grounds for fighting bulls has impeded access to the area. Hyslop’s survey of the road between Lambayeque and the Moche valley began on the south bank of the Leche River and did not include the site (Hyslop 1984; Hyslop and Urrutia 1980). Historical sources hint at the relationship of Jayanca with the Inka, and of the possible significance of La Viña. During their conquest of the region, the Inka were reportedly attacked by the Penachí (a polity based in the Andean foothills of Lambayeque), acting in collaboration with the lord of Jayanca. The rebellion was rebuffed, and the lord of Jayanca was taken as a hostage to Cuzco. He died while returning to the north coast, and his son was named by the Inka ruler as successor (Cabello Valboa [1585] 1951:331–332). Another story is recounted by Brüning ([1922] 1989:99). An Inka military contingent, stranded by rising waters (presumably the Leche), set up camp in Jayanca. There the leader of the army, a brother of the Inka ruler Huayna Capac, married the daughter of the Jayanca lord, tying rulers to ruled through kinship. Finally, in another reference, Jayanca is named as an Inka provincial capital: The metropolitan cities numbered between twenty and thirty, all embellished with a temple of the Sun, a house of virgins, a palace, fortifications, barracks, and other buildings designed to meet administrative needs. In these [centers] an immense population gathered from time to time, whether for solemn ceremonies or for public service.

The outstanding provincial capitals in the territory of what

is now the republic of Peru were, on the coast, Tumbes, bulwark of the north, Jayanca, capital of many valleys, Chimú, the seat of ancient rulers, Pachacamac, the city of pilgrims, and Chincha, rich in resources and people; in the highlands, Huancabamba, on the route to Quito, Cajamarca, with its great plaza and famous baths, Huánuco, of very ancient origins and with a temple served by thousands of priests, Hatun-Sausa, in whose plaza more than a hundred thousand souls sometimes gathered, Vilcas, to whose temple were also assigned many thousands of priests, the royal residences along the Vilcamayo,

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the provincial capitals near Cuzco, and as befitting the sons of the Sun, the capital of the empire.2 (Translation by author)

While this description is provocative, Lorente, a Spanish-­Peruvian scholar (Thurner 2005), does not provide any sources to substantiate this identification, and Jayanca does not appear on other lists of provincial Inka centers, such as the one provided by Cieza de León ([1553: fol. 25v] 1986:56). At the same time, the inclusion of Jayanca in the list is notable, since other north coastal centers that are described in equal or even grander terms by the chroniclers are omitted. La Viña is situated at the base of Cerro Zurita. The coastal trunk road passes through the central plaza of the site. In the early twentieth century, Brüning ([1922] 1989) observed high stone walls and lamented their destruction by local residents. Both adobe and stone wall foundations are visible today, but no high walls remain. Several courses of the Jayanca canal, which carried water from the Leche River to the north bank of the valley, pass through the site. Only the uppermost course was in use when the site was occupied; the others are blocked or fragmented. Not far from the plaza, the canal widens to form a rectangular pool (approximately 37 x 6 m) that is adjacent to a long, low platform mound with two summits. In front of the mound, what appears to be a staircase descends into the pool. As at Tambo Real, several pottery workshops dedicated to the manufacture of north coastal and Inka-style vessels were found at the site. The tomb of a shellworker was also located (Shimada 2010). It contained tools and worked shell, including the kinds of figurines that were dressed and placed with sacrifices and in other ritual contexts by the Inka (Dransart 1995, 2001). La Viña does not have some of the architectural hallmarks of Inka centers, like kallankas (long rectangular buildings, each with multiple doors and sloping thatch roof; see chapter 12, by Nair and Protzen), and if it did have features like trapezoidal doorways or niches, these disappeared long ago. The pool is reminiscent of the canal-fed pool at Pumpu (Matos Mendieta 1994:274, map insert), an Inka provincial center in the Peruvian central highlands, but the pool at Pumpu is located at the end of the canal, rather than at its center. The one irrefutably Inka feature of La Viña is its plaza (fig. 16.10), complete with an usnu platform, which dominates the center of the site. In their plazas, the Inka assembled their subjects for the rituals and feasts that reinforced Inka dominance and foregrounded the obligations between rulers and ruled (Moore 1996). At 5.2

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hectares in area, the La Viña plaza is the largest found at any Inka coastal site and could have accommodated roughly fifty thousand people. In comparison, the Inka plaza at the pilgrimage site of Pachacamac, where the Inka established a sun temple, is 2.9 hectares in area; at Inkawasi in the Cañete valley it is 1.7 hectares, and at Tambo Colorado in the Pisco valley on the south coast of Peru, it is 1.3 hectares.3 The La Viña plaza is comparable in size to the combined areas of the two main plazas in Cuzco (Cusipata and Haucaypata), though the plazas at certain provincial centers in the highlands were certainly much larger (approximately 20 hectares at Huánuco Pampa and 19 hectares at the site of Pumpu [Moore 1996: table 2]). It is likely that subjects from throughout Lambayeque (and possibly beyond, given the immense size of the plaza) were periodically assembled at La Viña to participate in state ceremonies and partake of Inka hospitality. They arrived via the trunk road, which leads directly into and out from the plaza, a pattern seen at other Inka centers (Hyslop 1990: ch. 3). This accessibility contrasts sharply with the use of Chimú plazas, which were much smaller and lay within the high walls of royal compounds, where access was tightly controlled and traffic was directed through long corridors and baffled entryways (Moore 1996). Moore has persuasively argued that the two plaza types expressed the relationship between rulers and ruled in two very different ways: the small size and restricted access of Chimú plazas emphasized class distinctions and the exclusivity of activities that took place within, while the Inka conveyed a message of inclusivity through their massive public gatherings in plazas that were easily accessible. Through the creation of the immense plaza at La Viña, and through the activities carried out there, the Inka expressed the new imperial order. The Inka reorganization of Lambayeque can also be seen at sites away from the trunk road. For example, they constructed new buildings to supervise production that had previously been controlled or overseen by the Chimú, such as mining and smelting at Cerro Huaringa in the Leche valley (Shimada, Epstein, and Craig 1982). Inka sectors were also constructed at Tú­cume, the administrative seat of the Túcume polity at the juncture of the Lambayeque and Leche valleys. Here, an elaborate burial of an elite male and twenty-two other burials, including nineteen women with weaving implements, were found associated with an Inka period compound on top of the monumental Huaca Larga (Heyerdahl, Sandweiss, and Narváez 1995:90–97). At

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the base of Huaca Larga, a small temple with offerings of finely dressed Inka figurines was also found (Heyerdahl, Sandweiss, and Narváez 1995:101–111). Similar figurines have been found at shrines possibly associated with the capacocha ceremonies that symbolically linked the provinces with Cuzco (Dransart 1995, 2001; ­McEwan and van de Guchte 1992). The excavators suggest that the burial was a high-ranking Inka (a regional governor) and that the associated women were aqlla. The Inka practice of adding new constructions to existing major local administrative centers has also been documented in other parts of the empire (Hyslop 1990: ch. 9). In addition to the study of state installations and major local centers, another way to assess the changes that occurred on the north coast as it was pulled into the Inka political sphere is through regional analyses of settlements, roads, fields, canals, and other landscape features (Dillehay, Kolata, and Swenson 2009; Hayashida 2006; Kremkau 2010; Tschauner 2001; Willey 1953; Wilson 1988; see Stanish 2001 for a general discussion of Inka regional studies). To do this, researchers on the north coast face a problem that likely occurs in other parts of the empire as well: Inka-period occupations are very hard to identify on the basis of the kinds of everyday pottery most commonly found on the surface of settlements. This difficulty arises from the paucity of Inkastyle remains, coupled with the apparent conservatism of north coastal styles from Chimú to Inka periods and the absence of systematic, finely resolved seriations of pottery and other materials (Shimada 2000:100). One solution is to identify as Inka only those late pre-Hispanic occupations with clear Inka (Cuzcorelated) diagnostics, while the others are identified by default as “Chimú” (or the equivalent pre-Inka phase). The obvious problem with this solution is that there will be a bias toward counting Inka-period occupations lacking Cuzco diagnostics as Chimú, skewing interpretations of the region under Inka rule (and under Chimú rule, for that matter). This may be what occurred in the survey of the Jequetepeque valley, which identified a total of 239 sites as “Chimú” (187 sites) or “Late Intermediate Period” (52 sites) and only 19 sites as possibly Inka in date, giving the impression that the area was abandoned or suffered a major demographic collapse under Inka rule. While this is possible, it seems unlikely in light of the productivity of the valley and the prominence of Farfán. Also, Cieza, who journeyed through Jequetepeque in 1548, describes the valley (referred

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to as Pacasmayo) as very fertile and densely occupied (Cieza de León [1553: fol. 94] 1986:206). Some researchers lump the two periods under one designation (indicating that an occupation is Chimú and/or Inka in date) when the material remains are chronologically ambiguous (Hayashida 2006; Wilson 1988). Clearly there is room to improve the seriation of pottery and other remains through the analysis of excavated materials from clear stratigraphic contexts. One such ordering of pottery appears in the work of Tschauner (2001: app. A), and is based on the excavations and analyses of Shimada and Cleland at Huaca del Pueblo Batán Grande in the mid-Leche valley. However, the Inka occupation at this site was limited, and unambiguous local-style Inka period diagnostics are not apparent. Similar seriation efforts based on excavated material from residential and funerary contexts may identify diagnostic Inka-period traits in north coastal pottery,4 as was demonstrated by Mackey (2010) and Levine (2004, 2011) in their analyses of pottery from Farfán. At the same time, it should be noted that some forms and designs of everyday pottery may have been very conservative and unchanging during the brief period of Inka rule on the north coast, and as such are poor chronological indicators. If these are the only kinds of remains visible on the surface of a site, then a dual designation (Chimú and/or Inka) would be less precise but more accurate. The Inka Production of North Coastal Styles Research at Inka pottery-manufacturing locations provides both further evidence of the introduction and spread of Inka styles and insights into the interpretation of “Inka” versus “local” in the archaeological record of the north coast. Before we present this evidence, a brief discussion of the organization of Inka craft production is required. State Production The labor service that produced the Inka material world was provided on a temporary or permanent basis (Costin 1996; D’Altroy 1994; Murra 1980; Rowe 1982; Zasada 1985). The mit’a (temporary, rotating labor) constituted the core of the Inka tributary system. Duties

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included work on roads and construction projects and the production of craft goods (e.g., the weaving mit’a imposed on households). As the empire grew, so did its economic demands. While the state continued to impose mit’a duty on conquered groups, special categories of state laborers were created or modified from existing categories to provide service on a permanent basis. People in permanent service included aqlla, yana, mitmaq, and kamayuq (Murra 1980: ch. 8; Rowe 1982; Silverblatt 1987; Zasada 1985). The aqlla were the “chosen women” who were taken from their home communities and relocated to Cuzco or provincial administrative centers, where they were segregated and expected to dedicate themselves to weaving and brewing for the state. The yana were retainers who were attached to Inka households and estates. Mitmaq were individuals resettled by the state to serve specific security or economic needs. Kamayuq were specialists, including craft producers, who were classified by skill. The labor categories are not mutually exclusive. For example, craft specialists were kamayuq but might also be mitmaq (relocated to a distant part of the empire) or yana (permanently attached to an Inka royal family or institution). Craft kamayuq were commonly resettled at nearby or distant administrative centers. For example, north coastal potters from Collique (a Lambayeque parcialidad) were moved to Cajamarca, where they made pottery for the Inka, his captains, and other personnel (Espinoza Soriano 1969–1970).5 Chimú metalsmiths, renowned for their high level of skill, were taken from the Chan Chan, the Chimú capital, and sent to Cuzco and provincial centers (Cieza 1986:[1553]:170 [f 70v.]). Other kamayuq were moved to special enclaves dedicated to state production. The most famous of these was established at Milliraya, on the shores of Lake Titicaca, where one hundred households of potters and one thousand households of weavers were relocated by Huayna Capac to produce cloth for the military and pottery for local and regional consumption (Spurling 1992; Murra 1978; Espinoza Soriano 1987). The aqlla were recruited as individuals, and their ties to their home communities were severed; rights to their production (and reproduction, for they were also distributed as gifts) were held by the state (Murra 1980: ch. 8; Rowe 1982; Silverblatt 1987). The kamayuq were recruited as groups of households, and while their service was permanent (and their children likewise were born into service), in principle they continued to retain

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rights and obligations in their home communities (Murra 1980: ch. 8; Rowe 1982). For pottery, the documentary evidence suggests that in most cases potters (as kamayuq) were permanently relocated to state centers or production enclaves (Hayashida 1994, 1998). The permanent relocation of specialists and the creation of enclaves had potential economic and political advantages (Costin 1991; D’Altroy 1994). Aggregation could provide economies of scale, permitting, for example, task-specialized, or “assembly line,” production. Groups of specialists could also be easily supervised, controlled, and retrained to make goods to state specifications. Knowing the Inka emphasis on standardized products, one possibility is that state production centers were mass-producing goods in state styles. Was this necessarily the case? To answer this question, we turn to investigations of Inka pottery workshops on the north coast of Peru. Pottery Production on the North Coast As noted above, clear evidence for pottery production was found at both Tambo Real and La Viña (Haya­ shida 1995, 1999). Several pottery-manufacturing loci were found at both sites. Evidence of pottery production included large quantities of misfired sherds, overfired sherds, large concentrations of ash and charcoal, unfired pottery, pigments, and many tools, such as molds, matrices, paletas (paddle stamps; pottery that is formed using a paddle and an anvil is known as paleteada), stamps, and burnishing stones. The identification of several manufacturing locations at each site, rather than one large production center, is significant, since it suggests that producers were not aggregated to take advantage of economies of scale. There is no evidence, for example, of mass production (large workshops with specialization by task and formal and metric standardization of tools and products). Vessels of a given type varied in size, shape, and decoration. What is more, different workshops produced different kinds of vessels. There is historical evidence that potters, like other craft producers on the north coast, were organized into subdivisions (also referred to as parcialidades) based on their specialties. Parcialiades had their own leaders, and members lived together either in separate communities or in sectors within larger settlements (Ramírez 1981, 1986; Rostworowski 1981, 1989). For the north coast, the list of craft parcialidades includes builders

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(albañiles), woodworkers (carpinteros), textile workers with various specialties (tejedores, cumbicos, tintoreros, sastres, pintores de mantas, roperos), silverworkers (plateros), sandal- and shoemakers (sapateros, alpargateros), matmakers (esteros, petateros), and potters (olleros) (Ramírez 1981, 1986). Potters were further divided on the basis of the kinds of vessels they produced (Hart 1983:271; Rost­ worowski 1989:274). We suggest that the different workshops found at La Viña and Tambo Real represent different parcialidades that were recruited to serve at the state centers. The decentralized organization of the production sites and the variation in vessels suggest that potters continued to be organized by households— implying that the organization of work mirrored the organization of recruitment. The maintenance of local organizing principles outweighed any potential benefits gained by reorganizing workers for mass production.6 What did the Tambo Real and La Viña potters produce? Not surprisingly, they manufactured the distinctive Inka flared-rim jars commonly called aríbalos (fig. 16.12) that are found throughout the empire. Large aríbalos were likely used to serve chicha to Inka guests and subjects as a gesture of hospitality and generosity that reinforced the bonds between rulers and ruled (Bray 2003; Morris 1979). Most of the La Viña and Tambo Real large aríbalos were unpainted, unslipped, and red or reddish-brown in color (fig. 16.13).7 The potters also produced other Inka or Inka-influenced vessels in small quantities, including painted provincial Inka forms, plates, and pacchas (sculptural vessels with a reservoir and a small opening and/or channels that were used to make liquid offerings [ Joyce 1922]). Note that Inka-style vessels, including the aríbalos, comprise only about 15 percent of the assemblage at only one of the La Viña and one of the Tambo Real workshops (and less at the others). The vast majority of vessels produced at these sites were in north coastal styles, primarily paleteada and press-molded small jars and plates and the large, thick-walled, and openmouthed paleteada jars referred to as tinajas or porrones (fig. 16.14). Not only were mostly north coastal–style vessels produced, but Inka-style vessels were made using north coastal techniques. Thus the large aríbalos were formed, or at least partially formed, using vertical press molds. Though variable, many were fired at very high temperatures in a reducing environment, followed by a brief period of cooling in an oxidizing environment (Haya­

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shida et al. 2003ab). This process produces a very hard gray paste with a thin red surface, characteristics that have not been observed in either contemporaneous or earlier pottery on the north coast. Such qualities have, however, been reported for Inka vessels in other parts of the empire (Ford 1949:71; Lunt 1988:492; Menzel 1976:30), and the firing technique was likely introduced by the state. A pattern of mixed local and Inka styles and techniques at state production sites has been documented in other parts of the empire as well. For example, at Por-

Figure 16.12. Provincial Inka flared-rim jar rims from the Tambo Real and La Viña pottery workshops.

Figure 16.13. Painted (red and white and polychrome) Provincial Inka sherds from one of the Tambo Real workshops.

Figure 16.14. Chimú-Inka plates from a La Viña workshop and ollas from a Tambo Real pottery workshop.

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trero Chaquiago, in northwestern Argentina, Lorandi and colleagues (Lorandi 1983, 1984; Williams and Lorandi 1986; D’Altroy, Lorandi, and Williams 1998) report the continued production of vessels in the styles of recruited potters, in addition to the manufacture of Inka forms. A combination of Inka and local vessels was also produced at Milliraya, as documented by Spurling (1992). The historical data from Milliraya also suggest that potters at these sites continued to be organized in the units in which they were recruited, with minimal supervision by the state. Discussion How do we interpret these findings? Why do state potters continue to make local-style vessels and Inka-style vessels using local techniques? There are several possible explanations, and they are not mutually exclusive. The first, and perhaps most parsimonious, is that potters were only retrained to produce the style of vessels most important to meet Inka political goals in the conquered province. In other words, so long as the aríbalos essential to state feasts aimed at reinforcing imperial rule were produced (using whatever techniques available), then it did not matter what other vessel forms were made. A second possible explanation is that a certain amount of flexibility was permitted in areas under indirect rule. Local rulers serving as state representatives may have produced and used traditional styles and symbols to help them maintain their authority and to assert that life after conquest was not so different from life before, a practice that may have facilitated state control. Thus Inka policies toward pottery production might have also been, to use Mackey’s term, conciliatory. A third possible explanation is that the continued production of local styles was encouraged or required by the state to mark the labor-tribute obligation of the producers. In other words, objects may have visually symbolized labor-tribute contributions. This interpretation is not so farfetched when you also consider Inka policies regarding relocated workers, who were required to retain their local dress, language, and hairstyles (Cobo [1653: bk. 12, chap. 23] 1956:109). Changing costume, for example, was a punishable offense (Córdoba Mejía 1925:276; Jiménez [1542/1608] 1892:17). The Inka required the maintenance of local ethnic markers. Thus production in local styles may be the natural outcome of the labor-tribute system, where “payment” was mon-

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itored or at least symbolized by marking individuals or the items they produced through local styles. Consider Cochabamba (Wachtel 1982). The Inka created a massive state farm, with the valley bottom divided into strips to be worked by recruited groups of different origins. As one looked across this vast state-created and state-controlled landscape, the Inka management of fields and labor would have been represented by the groups, in their traditional dress, moving across the strips of fields as they turned the earth, planted, weeded, and harvested. The maintenance of local styles in state contexts visually restated and reinforced tribute obligations and the place of Inka subjects in the tribute system. In some cases, the continued production of local styles under state auspices would have allowed the Inka to advertise their control of artisans from conquered polities. Consider that Chimú-style textiles and pottery were much more widely distributed under Inka rule than they were when the Chimú were an autonomous and powerful kingdom (Rowe 1984:124, 185–186). While you could argue that Pax Inkaica facilitated trade by north coastal polities (which may have been administered by the Inka [Ramírez 1990:529–531]), it is also plausible that these goods were manufactured by north coastal artisans laboring for the state. The presence of Chimú-style pottery in Cuzco, at provincial state sites, and with the burials of Inka bureaucrats suggests that these vessels were produced and distributed under state auspices (Bingham 1930:161; Menzel 1976:236; Valcarcel 1934:28–29). Through their access to Chimú artisans, the Inka may have expressed their dominion over previously powerful enemies. While local styles continued to be produced for the state, there were certain situations in which artisans probably were substantially retrained and perhaps reorganized. For example, at sites like Huánuco Pampa and Hatun Xauxa, more than 90 percent of the pottery is in Inka styles (D’Altroy, Lorandi, and Williams 1998:294; Morris 1995:427). No pottery workshops have been found in association with either site, but compositional analyses of finished Inka- and local-style vessels from Xauxa sites indicate that Inka-style pottery was made separately from local pottery (D’Altroy and Bishop 1990). Inka pottery was also more labor intensive and morphologically standardized, requiring a higher degree of skill and more intensive or larger-scale production (Costin and Hagstrum 1995). Supervision and retraining may also have been

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important in the production of highly valued textiles. For example, analyses of Inka tunics by Ann Rowe and John Rowe reveal a high degree of both stylistic and technical standardization (Rowe 1978, 1979; Rowe and Rowe 1996; see chapter 11, by Phipps). While some tunics were manufactured by kamayuq, others (destined for royal use) were made by aqlla (Rowe 1979:239–240). We do not know from the historical and archaeological records whether kamayuq weavers also made textiles in local or hybrid styles using local or hybrid techniques. However, here again the presence of provincial or hybrid textiles in the graves of Inka individuals and officials (Rowe 1995–1996:32–37) suggests their distribution and probable production under state auspices. In other words, kamayuq weavers for the Inka may have been expected to adhere more closely to Cuzco canons for certain garments while continuing to draw on their traditional stylistic and technological repertoires for others. This appears to have been the case for the production of textiles by aqlla at Pachacamac, where the highly visible shawls and dresses adhere to Inka standards in technique and design, whereas smaller items such as belts, headbands, and bags show a diversity of techniques and patterns reflecting the provincial origins and identities of the weavers (Tiballi 2010).8 Conclusion In this brief discussion, we have argued that we need to rethink our interpretation of Inka rule on the north coast and how we view and interpret the paucity of Cuzco-influenced material culture. First, with more fieldwork we find more evidence of the ways in which the Inka took advantage of existing Chimú infrastructure and experienced local lords and laid claim to local sites of political and ceremonial importance (such as Túcume). We also see the changes that the Inka introduced through, for example, the construction of the immense plaza at La Viña and the use of aríbalos (perhaps in plaza ceremonies) to emphasize state generosity and authority. Second, part of our inability to “see” the Inka has to do with our inability to unambiguously identify Inka-period sites, which hampers efforts to trace shifts in regional organization. Finally, the manufacture of local styles in state contexts means that the frequency and distribution of exclusively Cuzco-style objects incompletely reflect the presence of the state.

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On the one hand, this discussion has illustrated the potential difficulties in interpreting Inka rule in an area where state styles were not widely imposed or adopted. On the other, it raises questions about interpreting the material record of Inka rule, which requires that we heed Julien’s advice and reexamine assumptions about the relationship between style and polity in the empire. Careful consideration of state production and distribution, as well as the different uses and meanings of objects and architecture in state and local styles, is required. Such an exercise will improve our ability to read the material record of Inka rule, and lead to a more nuanced and improved understanding of life in the empire. Notes

1. For other examples of Chimú-Inka and north coastal Provincial Inka pottery, see Bonavía and Ravines 1971, Cuesta Domingo 1980, d’Harcourt 1924, Donnan 1997. 2. “Las ciudades metropolitanas eran de veinte á treinta, embellecidas todas con templo del sol, casa de vírgenes, palacio, fortaleza, cuarteles y otros edificios destinados á las necesidades de la administración. En ellas solia reunirse de tiempo en tiempo una inmensa población, sea para fiestas solemnes, sea para el servicio público. “En estas capitales de provincias brillaron en el territorio que ahora forma la república del Perú, por la costa Tumbez baluarte del Norte, Jayanca capital de muchos valles, Chimú residencia de antiguos soberanos, Pachacamac la ciudad de los peregrinos y Chincha abundante en recursos y hombres; por la sierra Huancabamba escala para Quito, Cajamarca de gran plaza y de baños famosos, Huánuco de origen antiquísimo y con templo servido por miles de ministros, Hatun-Sausa en cuya plaza se reunían a veces más de cien mil almas, Vilcas á cuyo templo estaban también adscritos muchos miles de ministros, las residencies reales en el curso del Vilcamayo, las capitales de las provincias inmediatas al Cuzco y como digna corte de los hijos del sol la capital del imperio” (Lorente 1860:209). 3. Area estimates based on measurement of Google Earth satellite images. 4. Changes in north coastal–style textiles (Rowe 1984) and adobe brick forms (Shimada 1990:348) during the Inka period have been noted. 5. Testimony of Sebastián Ninalingon (1596) in Espinoza (1969–1970:14): “hacer ollas y otra loza para el inga y sus capitanes y gentes.” 6. Note that aggregated but decentralized production has a long history in Lambayeque. For example, regarding Middle Sicán (a.d. 900–1100) blackware production at the site of Huaca Sialupe in northern Lambayeque, Shimada and colleagues have reported that individual or small groups of potters worked side by side, manufacturing the same suite of vessels using differ-

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ent sets of tools and slightly different techniques (Shimada and Wagner 2007). Shimada refers to this organization as “modular production with task redundancy,” and it can be contrasted with mass, or assembly-line, production, where workers are organized into a single, task-specialized unit. Modular craft production has also been documented at the Moche  V site of Pampa Grande (Shimada 2001), and at the Initial Period ceramic production site (ca. 1000–700 b.c.) at the Poma Canal (Shimada et al. 1998). 7. These large flared-rim jars, with rim diameters of approximately 24 cm, were also found at 2839X01 in the Pampa de Chaparrí. Flared-rim jars of this size have not been reported for other Inka-period sites on the north coast, and it would be interesting to know if they are limited to particular road-associated tampus and centers in Lambayeque—perhaps reflecting a focus in this region on state-sponsored feasting. 8. Similarly, a historical account from Chincha suggests that gold- and silversmiths working for the state were allowed to make small items for their own use and distribution: “Mandó el Inga a sus visitadores que los Indios que fuesen oficiales de oro y plata fuesen reservados de tribute y que no hiciesen más de hacer vasijas para su servicio o para quien el mandase, y que les permitía que pudiesen hacer algunas obras libianas para sus granjerías, como era hacer topos que eran algileres grandes de mugeres, o chipanas, que eran brazaletas para los brazos” (“Aviso de el Modo en que Havia en el Gobierno de los Indios en Tiempo del Inga y como se Repartían las tierras y Tributos fol. 268v.,” cited in Rostworowski 1989:235–236). Here again, we might expect a combination of Inka and local styles and technologies, with local practices most evident in the items for personal use.

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C H A P T E R 17

Over the Mountains, Down into the Ceja de Selva Inka Strategies and Impacts in the Chachapoyas Region Inge Schjellerup

Northeastern Peru has been left out of the mainstream of Andean studies despite its extensive archaeological remains, in the form of monumental architecture, terracing systems, road networks, and a great variety of tombs that date from the late Middle Horizon (a.d. 800–1000) through Late Horizon (a.d. 1400–1532). The rough, mountainous terrain in the ceja de selva (aka ceja de montaña or selva alta; this is the high jungle in the eastern escarpment of the Andes, as opposed to the lowland rainforest known as selva or selva baja), and its rainy climate, leave only a few valleys and smaller areas suitable for cultivation. Over the past century, however, human activities—such as field clearing for cultivation and cattle raising—have greatly affected the region, transforming the environment from a dense forest to a more open landscape with scattered forests and deep erosional gullies; this is why many of the prehistoric settlements now lie open, revealing a quite remarkable and notable Inka presence in the Chachapoya and in the neighboring Huallaga provinces (fig. 17.1). Archaeological research has shown how the Inkas, after they invaded the region around 1470, transformed the original environment into a cultural landscape with the construction of imperial, ceremonial, and public structures and with their investment in agricultural intensification in the form of terraces. The objective of this chapter is to illustrate how historical sources and archaeological research together contribute to the understanding of the nature and impacts of Inka control in this part of the northeastern Inka Empire.

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The Historical Sources We have a limited picture of the Inka conquest of this mountainous and forested region, as historical references are scarce in number and limited in depth. None of the chroniclers seems to have had a specific interest in the Chachapoyas, which they considered to be a marginal area. Cieza de León (1553) provides valuable information on the Chachapoya people, but only Padre Blas Valera, whom Garcilaso de la Vega (1609) relied on in his own descriptions, and Vásquez de Espinoza (1615) visited the area. The chronology of the Inka conquests presented by the various chroniclers is not very clear (Pease 1978). The problems in determining the chronology arise from the European bias of the chroniclers (see chapter 2, by Salomon); different answers were given by native informants due to their hidden and persistent loyalties toward their native curacas (local, ethnic chiefs or lords), and their perception of time did not correspond to European concepts and expectations. Pärssinen (1992:75) mentions that the chronological order of conquest of the different regions by the Inka ruler Tupac Inka Yupanqui was determined by the political prestige of the areas, as told in a khipu-history by his descendants. First his conquest of Chinchaysuyu is presented. This area corresponds to the northwestern portion of the Inka Empire (called Tawantinsuyu, “the land of four quarters” [suyus]), where many of the prominent and advanced pre-Inka cultures, including Chimor, or the Chimú Empire, had developed (see chapters 16 and 18, by Hayashida and Guzmán, and Bray, respectively). Its conquest was followed in turn by those of Antisuyu, Collasuyu, and Cuntisuyu, the remaining three parts of the empire.

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Figure 17.1. Map of archaeological sites in the Chachapoya and Huallaga provinces mentioned in the text. (Drawn by Mikael Kamp Sørensen)

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Several chroniclers agree that Tupac Inka Yupanqui was the first Inka to invade and conquer part of the Chachapoyas region. Their sequences do not completely coincide on the point of whether this happened before or after the conquest of Chimor (see Cieza de León [1553: pt. 2, chap. 57] 1986:16; Sarmiento de Gamboa [1572] 1999:131; Garcilaso de la Vega [1609: bk. 8, chap. 2] 1966:14; Murúa [1611: chap. 21] 1986:81; Pachacuti Yamqui [1613] 1968:302; Cabello Valbao [1586] 1951:320). Sarmiento de Gamboa, Murúa (probably copying from Gamboa), and Cabello Valbao generally agree that the Chachapoyas region was conquered before Chimor during the reign of Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui, father of Tupac Inka Yupanqui. During a trial in 1572 and 1574, however, local witnesses specifically mention Tupac Inka Yupanqui as the first Inka to enter and conquer the Chachapoyas, subsequently subsuming the province into Chinchaysuyu (Guaman Poma 1615:163; BNL A  585, fol. 88v; Alvarez 1572, published in Espinoza Soriano 1967:293). The divergent claims presented above may be explained by the fact that Tupac Inka Yupanqui carried out conquests while his father, Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui, was still alive. The Inka Conquest of the Chachapoyas Tawantinsuyu consisted of the territories of many ethnic groups, and Inka policies varied in the different provinces. How the Inkas subjugated and then administered each region can be properly determined only through an understanding of the local society that preceded their arrival as well as the geographical landscape, which was then overlain by Inka cosmology and ideology. The physical environment was sacred to the Inkas, who deified natural forces and changed the landscape by terracing mountainsides, modifying rock outcrops, and constructing sacred and secular installations through the incorporation of natural features such as springs, rocks, and special trees. According to Garcilaso de la Vega, when Tupac Inka Yupanqui had conquered the province of Huacrachuco, situated just south of the province of Chachapoyas, he seems to have lost interest in continuing his conquest of this mountainous region. The summer had passed, the Chachapoya people were known to be very bellicose, and the area experienced heavy rains. Contributing to

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his reluctance might have been the answers given by the oracles and sorcerers the Inka always consulted before going to war (Cobo [1653] 1990:163). The following summer some twenty thousand soldiers came to assist in the conquest of the Chachapoyas. The Inka sent advance messengers—according to the Inka custom of offering the choice of peace or war to a region they were about to invade—but the Chachapoya resolutely replied that they were obliged to take up arms and die in defense of their freedom (Garcilaso de la Vega 1967:14, 15; author’s translation). The Inkas came to an environment characterized by rugged mountains, where it always rains . . . mountainous land with vermin, many tigers [jaguars], and plenty of wild trees. (Calancha 1638:383; translation by author)

A further description: The land of Moyobamba is unhealthy, and it rains most of the year, and it is full of filthiness and mountains and many big and small rivers. (Cieza de León [1553] 1986:393; translation by author)

This was the world of the so-called Chachapoya people, who had developed an autonomous and advanced culture of their own that utilized and maintained a common style and symbolism in the designs of their architecture, pottery, and textiles. From the ninth to the fifteenth century the people in the Chachapoyas region had their own hierarchical sociopolitical organization and established powerful competitive curacazgos (ethnic chiefdoms). Each of three chieftains was in charge of the Inka unit of an huno (ten thousand households) at the time they were visited by the Spanish captain Alvarado in 1536 (BNL A 585, fol. 92v; Alvarez, published in Espinoza Soriana 1967:299). Agriculture and herding were confined to specific fertile areas in narrow valleys, limited valley slopes, and rolling high-altitude areas (Schjellerup 1997:41). The Chachapoya dominated the mountainous cloud-forest, placing their settlements in strategic positions on mountaintops overlooking communication and transportation routes that followed the rivers and the valley bottoms. They maintained control of the valleys and the passages toward the lowlands to the east through a network of social interaction. Nucleated hierarchical settlements in the high-altitude zones held more than four hundred house structures, including

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310  INGE SCHJELLERUP

Kuelap at 3,000 masl and Papamarca at 3,650–3,800 masl. An average Chachapoyas settlement consisted of fifty to a hundred masonry buildings, including monumental round houses 6–10 m in diameter (Lerche 1986; Narváez 1987; Schjellerup 1997, 2005). These buildings were adorned with distinctive symbols, in the form of zigzag friezes, meanders, and rhomboids, among others. There is a clear distinction in architectural decoration between the northern region, with its emphasis on friezes in the shape of a rhombus, and the southern region, which preferred meander friezes. The site of Congona near Leimebamba is decorated nearly exclusively with all these geometric designs, undoubtedly because the site had a special ceremonial and symbolic significance (Schjellerup 1997:50). Chachapoyas sites further to the east are strongly fortified and surrounded by high walls. It seems that some Chachapoyas groups lived under constant fear of attack from the neighboring lowland tribal groups, the Motilones and the Jeberos (Schjellerup et al. 2003:281). Trade and hostilities were likely a constant in the ongoing and changeable relationship between the Chachapoya and these selva inhabitants. Recent archaeological evidence has revealed a new type of settlement with round houses on low stone foundations laid out in a row behind an L-shaped wall. These distinct settlements were situated on mountain slopes along the ancient communication route and may represent settlements of the montaña (mountain tribal) groups in the ceja de selva (Schjellerup et al. 2009:46–52). Their new enemy, the Inkas, were to be a much more dangerous threat to the Chachapoya. Heavy ������������ fighting took place around the Chachapoyas towns, starting with Pias and continuing on to Condormarca, Caxa­ marquilla, Papamarca, Raimipampa, Suta, and Levanto as the Inkas advanced. These towns were a series of Late Intermediate–period settlements situated in the mountains on the eastern side of the Marañon River (the Hatun Mayo River). All of these place-names are found in the maps of Baltasar Jaime Martínez Compañon, late eighteenth-century bishop of Trujillo (Peru), and some on modern maps except for Papamarca. After these episodes, we are told, Tupac Inka Yupanqui continued farther to the east. [He] sent part of his army from Llauantu [Levanto] to conquer and reduce a province called Muyupampa [Moyobamba]. This was the place to which the brave Ancohualla had fled when

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he abandoned his lands as he did not want to recognize the superiority of the Inka, as we recounted in our telling of the life of Viracocha. This province is located in the Antis, thirty leguas east of Llauanto, and was not, properly speaking, part of the Chachapoyas but was allied, either by mutual desire through friendly confederation or through the ties of bondage, which was not agreed by all those Indians.

The natives of Muyupampa, having learned that the

whole province of Chachapoyas was subjugated to the Inka, surrendered easily but protested against having to embrace their idolatry and their laws and customs. So did the province called Cascayunga, and others that are in that district with less population, all of which surrendered to the Inka with little or no resistance.

The Inka provided the necessities for their idol belief and

worship of the Sun and for the benefit of the subjects. He ordered that water canals be dug and new land cultivated so the province would become richer. The curacas were given a lot of clothes, which they appreciated very much. The Inka then ordered that the war be stopped until next summer, so his army could rest. For the neighboring provinces, there was to be brought plenty of food for the people and for the newly conquered subjects, who suffered from the last war and needed food. (Garcilaso de la Vega [1609: bk. 8, chap. 3] 2007; translation by author)

Following a conquest, the Inkas divided the newly acquired territory to create new provinces by imposing provisional boundaries, which could be adjusted easily by shifting boundary markers as situations changed. The boundary lines had to be firmly established and in use by the time imperial officials did their inspections. It was necessary for the inspector to know where to go to count the number of inhabitants available for the labor tribute and to determine the economic strength of the new province. Models of newly conquered territories were made of clay, pebbles, and sticks and used to view and reorganize the topographical features according to the wishes of the Inka (Garcilaso de la Vega [1609: bk. 2, chap. 26] 2007; Hyslop 1990:27). Only one such clay model exists today, in the Archaeological Museum at the University of Cuzco (Lee 1997:103). The Inkas would immediately devise a plan to divide the land according to Inka socioreligious and political ideology and then begin remodeling the cultural and sacred landscape with the construction of various installations. The lands that belonged to the Inka and to Inka religion, the Sun cult, were established

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simultaneously, and the obligation to provide labor was imposed for the cultivation of maize, papaya, and avocado, among others (Schjellerup et al. 2003:373). There was no pre-Inka place-name “Chachapoya” in the area before the Spanish founded San Juan de la Frontera de Chachapoyas as the provincial administrative town of the region in 1544. The fact that the co­rregimientos (administrative districts under the control of a Spanish royal magistrate) established in the province of Chachapoyas during the Colonial period consisted of three large ethnic polities—the Caxamarquillas and Collai, the Luya and Chillaos, and the Pacclas—suggests that at the time of the Spanish arrival in the area there were at least three, if not more, local curacazgos. This complex ethnic landscape may well have been an Inkaic creation. I have proposed elsewhere that, to reduce the risk of rebellions, the Inka segmented the local population—characterized by a homogeneous material culture and common cultural identity—into many small curacazgos (Schjellerup 1997:35). It is also quite likely that at the same time the Inka imposed the name “Chachapoya” on this province for administrative purposes (Schjellerup 1997:35). The Inka conquest and their subsequent reorganization of the Chachapoya curacazgos created a curious and ironic situation. While the Inkas wanted the Chachapoya curacazgos under one umbrella for their own political and socioeconomic purposes, the curacazgos wanted to reunite as a powerful ethnic group to rebel against the Inkas, whom they detested. The Chachapoya were known to be fierce warriors, and Huayna Capac, one of the last Inka rulers, had to go to Chachapoyas twice to crush rebellions. A third rebellion involved the Pomacocha (Murúa [1611] 1986:155), who killed the Inka Chuquis Huaman, a brother of Huascar, in an ambush. During the last revolt, the Inkas withdrew several times to Levanto, where they had a secure stronghold (Libro de Cabildo de Chachapoyas [1544] 1958). Retaliatory measures and severe punishments were the outcome of the rebellion. Due to the persistent political unrest, the Inkas moved eighteen Chachapoya groups to other places in Tawantinsuyu (Schjellerup 1997:66), settling them, for instance, in Quito, Cotocollao, the Otavalo valley (Salomon 1978:226, 227), and Pallatanga (Moreno Yanez 1980:7) in Ecuador, and in Bolivia in Copacabana and Charazani (Ramos Gavilán [1621] 1976:84).

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Inka Installations Thus far, our surveys (1979–2009) of the Chachapoyas region have located thirty-nine Inka sites, but additional sites are known to have been connected by the road networks constructed by the Inkas (Davis 1988; Church 1996). These sites are located mainly in the quechua ecological zone. The Inka administrative center of Cochabamba is situated near the Marañon River, but other Inka installations of this region are accessible only by crossing the eastern cordillera of the Andes at altitude of ca. 4,200 masl and descending down to the altitude of ca. 1,100 masl in the ceja de selva along various rivers. Cochabamba The Cochabamba complex in the southern part of the present province of Chachapoyas was probably constructed as the first major Inka installation by Tupac Inka Yupanqui and was meant to serve as a regional administrative center. The site is strategically situated at a major intersection of four Inka roads: one coming from the south, from Cuzco, to Huánuco Pampa; another from the west, from Cajamarca; and the re­main­ ing two leading north to Ecuador and east into the ceja de selva and selva. Cochabamba is situated on a plateau at the altitude of 2,800 masl and is surrounded by a spectacular mountainous skyline. The historical sources reveal Cochabamba to have been the seat of an apo (provincial governor), and it was classified as a tampu real (royal inn built along a state road) (BNL B 864, fol. 4r). Cochabamba was visited by the three Inka rulers Tupac Inka Yupanqui, Huayna Capac, and Atahualpa (BNL A 585). The layout of Cochabamba (fig. 17.2) includes three elite compounds, storage structures, control posts, and water canals. The elite sector is roughly horseshoeshaped, opening toward the east, where the main plaza was situated on a lower level. Where the Christian church now stands was probably occupied by an Inka usnu, or ceremonial platform for libation and other offerings, according to the local people. The use of fine, polygonal Cuzco imperial-style masonry for the gateways (e.g., fig. 17.3), the fountains, the usnu, and some of the structures in the northern and southern compound attests to the importance of this site to the Inka. During the construction phase, massive leveling

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Figure 17.2. Site plan of the Inka administrative center in the contemporary village of Cochabamba. (Drawn by Lars Jørgensen)

Figure 17.3. Portal in Cuzco Imperial style in northern elite compound, Cochabamba. (Photo by Inge Schjellerup)

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Figure 17.4a, b. The yellowish layer in the northern compound (left), and the red layer in the southern compound (right), Cochabamba. (Photos by Inge Schjellerup and Lars Jørgensen)

Figure 17.5 The Cochabamba plateau, with Cerro Achil toward the west. (Photo by Inge Schjellerup)

and drainage works were undertaken by the Inkas in the northern compound after the natural vegetation had been burnt. These preparations were carried out to create a level building surface and to give the surface of the trapezoidal plazas a yellow color by depositing a layer of clay (fig. 17.4a). A mechanism for draining the terrain was created by depositing a layer of pebbles toward the lower slope. The southern compound is larger and appears to have served as a residence for the Inka nobil-

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ity and priesthood. The walls and the floors in this area were coated in red clay (fig. 17.4b). The Inka moiety system (dual division of a given social group or society), which separated its subjects into hanan (upper) and hurin (lower), may have been expressed in a visible symbolic way in this use of two distinct colors—yellow in the northern compound and red in the southern compound. Another embodiment of this division is the parallel system of carved and stone-

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Figure 17.6. Site plan of Pukarumi. (Drawn by Mogens Vedsted and Inge Schjellerup)

lined canals that run in from each side of the mountain and carried water into the Inka baths or fountains in the two compounds. The site of Cochabamba is aligned astronomically, as evidenced by the equinoctial sunsets that appear on the very top of Cerro Achil, the western saddle-shaped mountain; the sunsets at the times of the December and June solstices occur on either side of the mountain (Anthony Aveni, pers. comm. 1993). Finally, Cochabamba’s storage area, on the opposite, west-facing mountain, consisted of two rows of fifteen and eight small rectangular houses with ventilation and drainage slots. In addition to the above-mentioned landscape features, the presence of a gold mine may have contributed to the decision to locate a major regional center at Cochabamba. Stone tools for breaking gold-bearing quartz were found in one of the contemporaneous houses and nearby on the mountain slope of Moyambol, and early colonial documents mention the existence of a gold mine (Schjellerup 1997:141). The Inkas expanded the road system (probably along the earlier routes) to facilitate their regional administration and transportation needs, also constructing royal tampus along the main roads. In many places in the sierra as well as in the ceja de selva, the Inka roads are stone-paved and buttressed on both sides. The roads follow the river courses, running eastward along the Huabayacu, Chilchos, Verde, Huambo, Mashuayacu, and Yonan rivers. During any journey there was always a danger of fierce native attacks, poisonous snakes, and jaguars killing the people, “which

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[was] common,” we are told (BNL A 158, fol. 121v). In spite of the dangers, the dense vegetation, the difficult terrain, the harsh climatic conditions, the rain-induced landslides, the limited number of mountain passes, and the presence of disease, there must have been steady and continuous contact between the highlands and the lowlands. A number of other important Inka installations exhibit a great deal of variation in architecture, size, and function. Three of the larger sites worth discussing are Pukarumi at the Huabayacu River, Inka Llacta on the plain of La Meseta, and Posic, situated on the left side of the Mashuayacu gorge, in the Huallaga province. Pukarumi Pukarumi is situated on a narrowing peninsula between two rivers, the Israel and the Huabayacu, at an altitude of 1,960 masl. It possesses all the classical Inka architectural elements (fig. 17.6): two kanchas (a rectangular enclosure with three or more rectangular buildings placed symmetrically within), a kallanka (a long rectangular building with multiple doors and sloping thatch roof), two fountains, a covered canal system, a leveled plaza, and two platforms, one of which may be described as an usnu (see chapter 12, by Nair and Protzen). The interior of the usnu consists of a stone-lined chamber still containing charcoal from the burning of offerings; it was once covered with a flat capstone. Also present at this site are two large stone stelae covered with engraved, stylized representations of the

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sun, spirals, volutes, and meander and wave patterns, together with raised human arms and legs and other patterns. One of the stelae (fig. 17.7) stands alongside a sloping ramp leading into the settlement; the other was moved by the present owner of the site and is now located near the usnu. The site, surrounded by walls, is located at a narrow point of passage, providing its inhabitants full control of

Figure 17.7. One of the engraved stone stelae at Pukarumi. (Photo by Inge Schjellerup)

access to and from the lowlands. Overall, the settlement is a remarkable example of a closed defensive complex with a strong religious ceremonial character (Schjellerup 1997:156–163). Inka Llacta Inka Llacta, at the altitude of 1,975 masl, comprises three areas: (I) the main elite sector, in three parts, with some structures in Cuzco imperial-style masonry, surrounded by stone-paved terraces above and below the site; (II) a tampu structure; and (III) two kallanka on a platform (fig. 17.8) and a kancha structure. Another canal runs behind the platform. The site is divided in two by a canal whose course follows a depression in the bedrock; the waterway was cut into this natural feature and lined with stone on both sides. The elite sector consists of eighteen houselike structures placed around small patios, in the typical kancha style of the Inkas. One of the buildings in this area, constructed of soft red sandstone, displays elaborate Cuzco imperial-style masonry (fig. 17.9). A line was carved in its

Figure 17.8. Site map of Inka Llacta. (Drawn by Victor Peña, Arhur Tandaypan, and Inge Schjellerup)

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Figure 17.9. Building in Inka Llacta in Cuzco Imperial–style masonry. (Photo by Inge Schjellerup)

upper stones, encircling the entire structure. This detail reminds us of the Coricancha (the Sun temple in Cuzco), which had a gold band around its exterior that would shine brightly when the sunlight hit the walls (Pizarro [1571] 1978, fol. 54r). Perhaps the house was dedicated to the Sun. The other structure in Cuzco imperial-style masonry is a fountain, similar to those found in Cochabamba, Pukarumi, and Posic, and it is likewise fashioned of red sandstone. This stone is not available naturally in the vicinity of the site, but can be found at a distance of two days’ travel near the archaeological site of Pascuala Baja. This sector is accompanied on the north and east by a series of agricultural terraces of different lengths and heights laid out according to the topography, incorporating some large boulders toward the east. The other components of the site are situated some forty meters east and northeast of this elite area, on the other side of the canal. One (III) consists of a large platform with two kallankas and a kancha, and the other (II) has a large kancha. The water system in Inka Llacta was quite elaborate: in area III a carved and covered canal carried the water into the fountain, and an open canal ran along the large platform and into the main canal.

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The location of this site might have been chosen because of the sacred elements of its geography: the natural canal in the bedrock, the steady supply of water from the cloud forest, and the abundance (at that time) of wild animals. The terraces were used for the cultivation of maize, beans, and fruit trees—such as papaya and avocado—as determined from the pollen analyses (Schjellerup et al. 2003:191). Pollen from coca does not appear in these analyses, but this resource was undoubtedly collected and cultivated, as wild coca appears frequently in the forest. Posic Posic, at an altitude of 1,940 masl, is located between two rivers. Among the remains visible at the site (fig. 17.10) are a large kancha, a fountain in Cuzco imperialstyle masonry, a kallanka, an usnu, and what is interpreted to be an intihuatana, a stone or designated area for solar observation and rituals (fig. 17.11). The buildings occupy a large leveled area. The stone terraces above and below the core of the site were constructed on a gentle slope, from north to south. The upper stone

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terraces comprise large boulders, and three ramps lead down to the leveled area. An open conduit from the forest carried water via a stone-covered canal into the fountain. Further up, and on the other side of the river, there is a former Chachapoyas site with several circular stone buildings and round platforms. A stone-paved road runs through inundated areas toward the east. The presence of more than fifteen boulders with incised decoration—such as cup marks and long lines—near the site (fig. 17.12) implies that this was a pre-Inka ritual complex where tribal communities may have gathered on certain times of the year. The Inkas may have specifically chosen this site to involve the local population in Inka ceremonies related to the Sun cult, and thus assert the Inkas’ ideology. The performance of Inka rituals associated with food and drinking feasts would have strengthened Inka power. Those Indians who lived in the forests and yunca lands [low to middle zones of the Andean slopes that enjoy year-round sun and warmth] worshiped and made sacrifices to a star that they call Chuquich Inkay, which they say is a tiger [jaguar] and was thought to watch over tigers, bears, and lions. As sacrifices were offered to it, they requested these animals do them no harm. Those who needed to travel through dense forests also entrusted themselves to this star for the same reason as those

Figure 17.10. Preliminary site plan of Posic. (Drawn by Josefine Franck Bican and Lars Jørgensen)

who lived there. (Cobo [1653] 1990:31) 1: kancha, 2: kallanka, 3: kancha, 4: intihuatana, 5: fountain, 6: usnu.

Oral tradition and a historical document (BNL A  158) mention the presence of a gold mine and salt extraction close to the installation at Posic, additional incentives to establish a site here. Farther to the east, near the Huabayacu River, are minor sites such as Tampu Eje, where there are kanchas and a partially built fountain. Tampu Canaan comprises just a kancha structure, while at Pascuala Baja, with its two sectors, there are remains of several rectangular buildings and two kallankas. Tampu Chuquisita at the Verde River (1,100 masl) has a kallanka and a kancha and is today surrounded by wild coca bushes. Pata Llacta is situated on the upper mountain slopes (1,550 masl) and appears to be an Inka-built site that combines a large terraced area for agriculture and Inka architectural forms, such as kanchas and a kallanka. This site has a very strategic location—on an important north–south communication route—and an unobstructed view of the Huambo valley toward the north. The valley was an important area for

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Figure 17.11. The intihuatana in Posic. (Photo by Inge Schjellerup)

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Figure 17.12. Engraved boulders in the upper area of Posic. (Photo by Inge Schjellerup)

cultivation, with many terraces. Located at the source of the Chilchos River, the site of Cascarilla Wasi has a kallanka, a kancha, a fountain, and storehouses. Farther to the east, where the mountains flatten out toward Moyobamba, the site of Tampu Quijos Llacta has eight rectangular structures, some of which have interior divisions, and five round storage structures. Lastly, fragmentary remains of an Inka tampu were found at Selva Alegre (Schjellerup et al. 2009). Summary and Discussion As evident in our map of the region (see fig. 17.1), Inka sites seem to cluster around or near Chachapoyas sites, likely as a way to maintain control over the indigenous population. Most of the Inka sites were constructed after the conquest of the region, and only in a very few cases did the Inkas install one of their rectangular houses or a kancha structure (examples include Kuelap, Papamarca, and El Aliso [Schjellerup et al. 2003]). Only the sites of Posic and Atuén combine a Chachapoya and an Inka

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sector. Most of the sites lie open, with no signs of fortifications, except for Pukarumi, which is surrounded by a wall. Inka settlements were undertaken mainly in the quechua zone (2,300–3,200 masl), where the planned agricultural development increased the production of maize for ceremonial purposes. Some emphasis was also put on cultivation in the jalca zone (3,200–3,800 masl), where uniform terrace systems were used for tuber cultivation. Not only potatoes but also mashua (Tropaeolum tuberosum) may have been important; Cobo mentions that mashua could diminish the sexual appetite of the Inka soldier (Cobo [1653] 1964:171). In the lower temple zone, also called yunga (900–1,800 masl), fruit trees and coca were important crops. There was an increased demand for food for the new Inka installations and for the Inka armies who traveled through the area. Inka army columns consisted of not only thousands of soldiers, but also groups of women and children who prepared the food during the campaigns toward the north. When they invaded the territory of Chachapoyas,

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the Inkas not only transformed the environment and the local sociopolitical framework, but also reorganized the local curacazgos into their own cultural and sacred landscape, introducing a new cult, another language, and different architecture to signal Inka status and control. Aspects of Inka culture that were introduced to the Chachapoyas region included the complex of ideologies comprising the Sun cult, their deities, and their ancestors, all expressed within a sacred landscape. At the same time, the Chachapoya continued to regard the landscape through the lens of their own symbols and beliefs; these not only were essential for the existence and reproduction of Chachapoyas society, but also notably diverged from those of the Inkas. The Inkas thus had to acknowledge that these new, mountainous territories were inhabited by foreign apus (powerful “mountain lords”) and deities, and they needed to recognize that the Chachapoya people’s spirits and ancestors should be included in the Inka universe, as was part of their usual procedure when integrating a newly conquered area. The local curacas had to be persuaded to become part of the Inka Empire, but the Chachapoya curacazgos were not ready to surrender and were supposedly not happy when their principal huaca (sacred idol, object, or place), Cuychaculla, was taken to Cuzco. Relocating provincial huacas (in reality, taking them as “hostages”) was a widely applied Inka practice that served both to symbolize the status of the provincial huacas as subservient to the Sun and to ensure the loyalty of provincial populations. The Chachapoya were a proud people and had put their distinctive stamp on their land from the ninth century onward. Their uniform settlements, for example, with their standardized circular houses and symbols, on mountaintops were in contrast to the Inka practice of establishing widely dispersed, different kinds of installations with square or rectangular structures as needed. Why did the Inkas became so interested in the Chachapoyas region? There are many important reasons. For one, the topographic features of the landscape constituted a series of symbolic resources: a lake in the shape of a snake, sources of rivers, lakes, and unusually shaped boulders that could be considered huacas. An additional factor was the strategic position of Chachapoyas, as a gateway toward the east. Its many agroeconomic and mineral resources (gold, cinnabar, coca leaves, and salt) were useful for religious and more mundane purposes. Gold mines were found “in the mountains of Chuiquitambo and Cochabamba” (BNM

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3040, fol. 448) and Posic, and salt extracted at Posic was traded. Wild animals, such as jaguars, pumas, boars, deer, picuro (a.k.a. paca or majáz [Agouti paca]—a large nocturnal, herbivorous rodent), and snakes, among others, would be of interest as acquisitions for the Inka “prison” where live wild animals were kept (Guaman Poma 1615:304). Their pelts, antlers, and other body parts could be used in rituals. Likewise, there must have been a never-ending demand for the colorful feathers used for Inka ceremonial head ornaments and costumes. We are told that the chieftain of the Pomacocha presented the Inka Chuquis Guaman with beautiful feathers and birds (Murúa [1611] 1946: chap. 44). Nets found in the Laguna de los Condores (on display at the Centro Mallqui, Museo Leymebamba) also point to such a practice. Birds with colorful feathers, such as the guacamayoq (macaw of different coloration), various parrots, and the gallito de las rocas, were plentiful in this region in earlier periods. With its dense and extensive forest, the region was also able to supply enormous amounts of timber and firewood. Consider the quantity of firewood necessary just for preparation of chicha (maize beer), consumed in a large quantity during the monthly ceremonies, and for the eternal bonfires maintained in the major Inka installations to fulfill obligations to their deities (Murúa [1611] 1946: bk. 4, chap. 2). The Chontaces, a Chachapoya curacazgo in the ceja de selva, may have supplied the warriors with material for their lances. The Chonta palm is one of the hardest woods and was probably used by the Inkas for weapons (AGI 123, ramo 4, fol. 1v). The Chachapoyas region is also known to have produced cotton and wool textiles for special fine garments, used as gifts, that were highly appreciated both by the Inkas and later by the Spaniards. Large flocks of llama and alpaca grazed in the highlands, and cotton was cultivated along many of the valley floors (Cieza de León [1553] 1986:230). But the Chachapoya were also famous for their shamans and herbalists, who used powerful jungle medicinal plants that could poison “according to the days, months, or years when they intend to use it to kill” (Polo de Ondegardo 1916:30). Drugs were part of prophetic rituals in Chachapoyas in the early seventeenth century (Ramirez 2005:146). Present-day shamans from the coast still collect special medicinal herbs in Chachapoyas. Hallucinogenic trees such as the Angel trumpet (Datura arborea) are found all over the que-

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chua zone, and in the temple (aka yunga) zone coca was and still is cultivated in many places. Historical sources describe the pre-Hispanic use of espingo seeds (Nectandra sp.) as something particular to the province of Chachapoyas (Arriaga [1621] 1920; Keating 1968:26). Espingo seeds are depicted in art of the Moche and of subsequent cultures along the northern coast of Peru (Donnan 1976). Given the diverse and valuable resources, both tangible and intangible, that the Chachapoyas region possessed, it is understandable that the Incas wanted to maintain full control of the area via their many installations. They claimed that their father, the Sun, protected the livestock, agriculture, and worship and that work for the Sun and his son, the Inka, would bring many benefits. The local groups, however, would seek out their own curacas and ancestors for protection, if they were not regularly monitored by an Inka representative. People were required to work for the Inka and to take part in the scheduled ceremonies and rituals, where they were given plenty to eat and drink (Ramirez 2005:223). The larger Inka installations may be characterized as having a predominantly religio-political character, as evidenced by the houses of the Sun and usnus in Cochabamba, Inka Llacta, and Pucarumi, and an intihuatana in Posic that effectively expressed Inka identity and ideology within a sacred landscape of huacas. Lavish ceremonies and rituals must have been carried out at these sites to control and impress the local population. The strong religio-political nature of these sites is not a surprise. The daily life of both Chachapoya and Inka societies was full of obligations toward deities, ancestors, and idols. It was necessary to seek auguries from animals and coca leaves, listen to the oracles, comply with the demands of the priests and shamans, and be careful to maintain traditions and customs with constant offerings. Some Inka settlement sites had a more agroeconomic character; still other sites were placed at strategic vantage points and probably served as control stations, providing protection, shelter, and accommodation for soldiers and official travelers. Minor installations, such as shelters for chasqui (runners who carried messages and/or some objects along the Inka roads), have also been found. Overall, the Inka conquest of the Chachapoya served not only as a means to increase the production of desired crops and other valued items, but also as a way to establish and maintain the ideol-

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ogy of the Inkas by the construction of their many installations. Finally, during the early Spanish colonial era in the sixteenth century, the Chachapoya suffered a much larger population decline than other northern repartimientos (official allotment of native laborers among Spanish employers for exploitative purposes) experienced, a result of not only the introduction of European diseases to the area, but also the decision of many to flee into the selva (Cook 1981:185). Most of the Inka sites were abandoned. Soon thereafter, the forest returned, engulfing the prior settlements and agricultural areas, which earlier may have appeared as islands of open space in a dark green “sea” of forest. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, almost all efforts by the European conquerors and missionaries to conquer and colonize the eastern selva advanced along the former Inka road from Cajamarca, crossing the Marañon River, to the former Inka administrative center of Cochabamba and continuing toward the north to Leymebamba-Chachapoyas and eastward toward Moyobamba. In the eighteenth century the road went directly from Balsas on the eastern shore of the Marañon River to Leymebamba. The 1960s brought a major change, with the construction of the “La Marginal,” the trans-Andean road that connects the Pacific coast with the Amazonian lowlands in the east. Today there is a strong population migration from the west towards the east. The associated introduction of cattle raising has destroyed many archaeological sites and the landscape of the Chachapoyas and other regions in the ceja de selva. Unresolved Research Issues and Future Research Tasks The methodology we have adopted in our project of mixing ethnohistory and archaeology effectively demonstrates how they complement each other and has provided us with a better overall understanding of the Inka presence in Chachapoyas territory. An awareness of local geography combined with ethnographical fieldwork is also instrumental in understanding local conditions in relation to the ethnohistorical and archaeological evidence. Further ethnohistorical investigations should be carried out in the municipal and archbishopric archives of

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Chachapoya, which keep early Spanish colonial records on landownership referring to both pre-Inka and Inka times. The role and behavior of the local curacas and Inka-imposed curacas may provide new information on sociopolitical organization. References to Inga reales, royal Inka land, in some documents (Archivo Regional de Chachapoyas, Protocolo 1688) may provide further information on how the Inkas distributed and integrated new lands within their conceptual system, made visible in the physical landscape. Climatic and environmental conditions and the lack of roads make archaeological research in the ceja de selva difficult, as they impede both access and accurate survey and measurement. Further archaeological field reconnaissance would undoubtedly reveal more Chachapoya and Inka sites and agricultural facilities. To establish a better regional chronology, additional excavations at the Inka installations to collect radiocarbon samples are required. Pollen and other microbotanical samples, as well as preserved macrobotanical remains recovered through water flotation, would help us determine any changes in the overall composition of wild as well as cultivated plants at the local Inka and Chachapoya sites. One persistent question concerns the allocation of the Chachapoya mitimaes to other locations in Tawantinsuyu. From where in Chachapoyas did these individuals come? Did the Chachapoya leave any identifiable archaeological vestiges of their identity in their new locations? Only a few mitimaes groups from other parts of Tawantinsuyu are known to have been settled in the Chachapoyas province. One of them was composed of the Huancas, who were established in a pottery-making village north of the provincial town of Chachapoyas. The Visitación de los indios Chupachos (Cieza de León [1553] 1986: chap. 78) mentions that the Inka Huascar ordered two hundred Chupachos men to be garrisoned in Chachapoyas. Where were they placed? The Inka road, in reality a path, was important as a means of access, but how was it maintained in the ceja de selva? How far did the Inkas reach into the selva? The eastward extension of the Inka Empire is still not known (see chapter 15, by Pärssinen). How was the frontier zone (including the northern end of the empire discussed in chapter 18, by Bray) conceived by the Inkas and by the others? How were the frontiers determined and made visible? What were the consequences for the conquered or those who were incorporated into the empire in this zone?

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Many other questions remain concerning the encounter between the selva tribal groups further to the east and the Inkas. Was this, the upper reaches of the selva, a transition zone of contact and exchange? Perhaps the Inkas were able to attain some form of peaceful relationship with these selva tribes in the form of mutually beneficial trade that allowed the Inkas to acquire items used in their ceremonies. We are still in the initial phase of research in the region. We are hopeful that the growing interest in this area will prevent the continued destruction of its archaeological sites. Acknowledgments The author wishes to thank the Carlsberg and Villum Foundation most sincerely for grants supporting interdisciplinary projects in the years 1979 and 2000–2014. Special thanks go to Romulo Ocampo Zamora of Chuquibamba for his never-ending help in logistics and for being a marvelous friend during hardships and good times. All the courageous participants deserve plenty of gratitude for enduring difficult fieldwork: archaeologists Victor Peña Huaman, Orlando Angulo Zavellata, Arturo Tandaypan Villacorte, and Lars Jørgensen; botanist Victor Quipuscoa Silvestre; and geographer Mikael Kamp Sørensen. All these projects were associated with the Ethnographical Collection of the National Museum of Denmark. Bibliography Unpublished Sources Archivo General de Indias (AGI), Patronato Real, Legajo 123, Ramo 4.



“Información de los meritos y servicios del Capitan Juan Perez de Guevara, uno de los conquistadores y pacificadores del Peru y particularmente de la provincia de los Chachapoyas. Año 1578.”

Biblioteca Nacional, Lima (BNL) A 585



“Expediente repartimiento de Leymebamba y Cochabamba, encomienda de Francisco de Guevara. Chachapoyas, 6 de Mayo 1577.”

Biblioteca Nacional, Lima (BNL) B 864



“Expediente sobre el juicio de residencia instaurado por el Lic. Jacinto Carranza al Capt. Juan Félix de la Rinaga, Corregidor que fué de Caxamarquilla. San Juan de Chilliac. Nov. 1645.”

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Lee, Vincent R.



1997

“Memoria de las minas de oro que hay en esta provincia de los Chachapoyas. Folio 448. Ca. 1570.”

Archivo Regional de Chachapoyas, Protocolo 1688.

Lerche, Peter

1986 Published Sources Arriaga, Pablo Joseph de

(1621) 1920  La extirpación de la idolatría del Pirú. Ed. Horacio Urteaga, Colección de libros y documentos referentes a la historia del Perú 1, 2nd ser. Lima: Sanmartín y Ca. (1621) 1968  The Extirpation of Idolatry in Peru. Trans. and ed. L. Clark Keating. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press. Cabello Valboa, Miguel

(1586) 1951  Miscelánea antártica. Lima: UNMSM. Calancha, Antonio de

1638

Corónica moralizada del origen de San Augustin en el Perú con sucesos egenplaros desta monarquia. Barcelona. “Pre-historic Cultural Development and Interregional Interaction in the Tropical Montane Forest of Peru.” PhD diss., Yale University, New Haven.

Cieza de León, Pedro de

(1553) 1986  Crónica del Perú. 2nd ed. Lima: PUCP. Cobo, Bernabé

(1653) 1964  Historia del Nuevo Mundo. BAE 91–92. Madrid: Atlas. (1653) 1983  History of the Inka Empire. Trans. and ed. Roland Hamilton. Austin: University of Texas Press. (1653) 1990  Inka Religion and Customs. Trans. and ed. Roland Hamilton. Austin: University of Texas Press. Cook, Noble David

1981

Demographic Collapse: Indian Peru, 1520–1620. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

(1789) 1978–1988 Trujillo del Peru. Vols. 1–9. Ediciones Cultura Hispánica del Centro Iberoamericano de Cooperación. Madrid: Teype. Moreno Yánez, Segundo

1980

“The Cloud People.” NATI 3055. Mimeographed paper. Ontario, Canada.

Donnan, Christopher B.

1976

Moche Art and Iconography. Los Angeles: UCLA Latin American Center Publications.

Espinoza Soriano, Waldemar

1967

“Los señoríos étnicos de Chachapoyas y la alianza hispano-chacha.” Revista Histórica 30:224–333.

Garcilaso de La Vega, Inka

(1609) 2007  Commentarios reales de los Inkas. Lima: Universidad Inca Garcilaso de la Vega. 1966 Royal Commentaries of the Inkas. Trans. Harold Livermore. Austin: University of Texas Press. Guaman Poma de Ayala, Felipe

1615 http://www.kb.dk/permalink/2006/poma/info/en /frontpage.htm. Hyslop, John

1990 Inka Settlement Planning. Austin: University of Texas Press.

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“Colonias mitmas en el Quito incaico: Su significación económica y política.” Mimeographed paper. Quito.

Murúa, Fray Martin de

(1611) 1986  Historia general del Perú. Ed. Manuel Ballesteros. Crónicas de América. Madrid: Historia 16. 1946 Los orígenes de los Incas. Pequeños Grandes Libros de Historia Americana. Lima: Francisco A. Loyaza. Narváez Vargas, Alfredo Luis

1987

“Kuelap: Una ciudad fortificada en los Andes nororientales de Amazonas, Perú.” In I Simposio: Arquitectura y Arqueología Pasad, ed. Rangel Flores, 115–142. Chiclayo: Museo Bruning, Universidad de Chiclayo.

Pachacuti Yamqui, Juan Santa Cruz

(1613) 1968  Historia de los Incas y Relación de su gobierno. BAE 109. Madrid: Atlas. Pärssinen, Martti

1992

Tawantinsuyu: The Inca State and Its Political Organization. Helsinki: SHS.

Pease G. Y., Franklin

1978

Del Tawantinsuyu a la Historia del Perú. Lima: IEP.

Pizarro, Pedro

(1571) 1978  Relación del descubrimiento y conquista del Peru. Lima: PUCP. Ramírez, Susan Elizabeth

2005

Davis, Morgan

1988

Häuptlingstum Jalca: Befölkerung und Ressourcen bei den vorspanischen Chachapoya, Peru. Berlin: Reimer.

Martinez Compañón, Baltasar Jaime

Church, Warren

1996

“Design by Numbers: Architectural Order among the Incas.” Tawantinsuyu 3:103–118.

To Feed and Be Fed: The Cosmological Bases of Authority and Identity in the Andes. Stanford: Stanford University Press.

Ramos Gavilán, Alonso

(1621) 1976  Historía de Nuestra Señora de Copacabana. Segundo edición completa, según la impresion principe de 1621. La Paz: Academia Boliviana de la Historia. Rivera Serna, Raúl, ed.

1958

Libro primero de Cabildos de la ciudad de San Juan de la Frontera de Chachapoyas (1544). Fénix 11, 12.

Salomon, Frank Loewen

1986

Ethnic Lords of Quito in the Age of the Incas: The Political Economy of North-Andean Chiefdoms. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

Sarmiento de Gamboa, Pedro

1999 (1572)  History of the Incas. Trans. and ed. Clements Markham. London: Dover. Schjellerup, Inge

1997

Incas and Spaniards in the Conquest of the Chachapoyas: Archaeological, Ethnohistorical, and Anthropological Research in the North-eastern Peru. GOTARC Series

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2005

B. Gothenburg Archaeological Theses 7. Göteborg: Göteborg University. Incas y Españoles en al conquista de los Chachapoya. Lima: PUCP/IFEA.

Schjellerup, Inge, Victor Quipuscoa Silvestre, Carolina Espinoza Camus, Victor Peña Huaman, and Mikael Kamp Sørensen

2005

Schjellerup, Inge, Carolina Espinoza Camus, James Rollefson, Victor Quipuscoa Silvestre, and Mikael Kamp Sørensen

2009 La Ceja de Montaña: Un paisaje que va desapareciendo/A Disappearing Landscape. Estudios interdisciplinarios en el Noreste del Peru/Interdisciplinary Studies from North-eastern Peru. Ethnographic Monographs 3. Copenhagen: National Museum of Denmark.

Redescrubriendo el Valle de los Chilchos: Condiciones de vida en la ceja de selva, Peru/The Chilchos Valley Revisited: Life in the Ceja de Selva. Ethnographic Monographs 2. Copenhagen: National Museum of Denmark.

Schjellerup, Inge, Mikael Kamp Sørensen, Carolina Espinoza Camus, Victor Quipuscoa Silvestre, and Victor Peña Huaman

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Los valles olvidados: Pasado y presente en la Utilización de recursos en la Ceja de Selva/The Forgotten Valleys: Past and Present in the Utilization of Resources. Ethnographic Monographs 1. Copenhagen: National Museum of Denmark.

Vásquez de Espinosa

(1615) 1969  Compendio y descripción de las Indias occidentales. BAE 231. Madrid: Atlas.

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C H A P T E R 18

At the End of Empire Imperial Advances on the Northern Frontier Tamara L. Bray

In the final decades of Inka rule (ca. a.d. 1480–1530), the imperial center of gravity—as embodied in the king, his court, and his army—shifted north from Cuzco to the circum-Quito region of the equatorial Andes. Though the focus of Huayna Capac’s expansionary ambitions, the source of Atahualpa’s military strength, and the earliest theater of resistance to the Spanish invasion, the northern sector of the empire has never really been fully incorporated into the larger narrative of Tawantinsuyu. This neglect likely relates in part to the lack of any firsthand accounts of the Spanish conquest in this region (see Hemming 1970:154) and also to the general lack of national interest in Inka archaeology in Ecuador until fairly recently. As a number of new archaeological discoveries and investigations make clear, however (e.g., Bray and Echeverría 2009, 2010, 2011; Cruz 2011; Estupiñán 2011; González et al. 2006–2007; Lippi and Gudiño 2010; Ogburn 2010; Ogburn et al. 2009), there is much yet to be learned regarding the rhythm and timing of Inka expansion, the evolution of imperial practices of statecraft, and the strategic use of distinct ecozones in the context of the northern Andes. The aim of the present chapter is to offer an overview of the current state of knowledge regarding Inka expansion into, and subsequent consolidation of, northern Ecuador that incorporates new archaeological data and recent ethnohistoric research. This region, which historically comprised the territory of the ethnic Caranqui-Cayambe population, as well as the neighboring Pasto to the north, represented the northernmost reaches of imperial control at the moment of the Spanish invasion. I begin with a short review of the historic accounts of the imperial advance into the equatorial Andes and juxtapose the traditional chronology with the growing number of radiocarbon dates from Inka contexts in Ecuador. I turn then to a discussion of the ethnic makeup of the region prior to the Inka incursion,

Shimada_5545_18-pp3.indd 325

focusing on the political and economic organization of the Caranqui-Cayambe and the lesser-known Pasto. In the next section, I look at the archaeological evidence for the Inka presence in the equatorial Andes, considering the types of sites found as well as their distribution in relation to local settlements and the associated artifactual material. I also take the opportunity in this section to highlight a number of recently discovered Inka sites in the circum-Quito region. In the final part of the chapter, I take recent investigations at the site of Inca-Caranqui as the point of departure for consideration of the evolving strategies of material domination and control at the farthest ends of empire. Given its historic associations, the site of IncaCaranqui also provides a good lead-in to discussion of the significance of the circum-Quito region in the final years of empire with respect to imperial politics, the fratricidal civil war, and the early attempts of the northern Inka faction to regain control of the chaotic situation following Atahualpa’s capture. The late prehistoric and early colonial evidence from the northern frontier highlights the significance of the equatorial Andes to our understanding of the latter phases of imperial rule and the diversity of initial reactions to the Spanish invasion. Inka Conquest of the Northern Andes The northern reaches of the imperial sector known as Chinchaysuyu (see fig. 1.1 of chapter 1) comprised what is today the modern nation of Ecuador. Cabello Balboa ([1586] 1951:321) described the lushness and fertility of the “renowned” province of Quito, the northernmost portion of this region, in glowing terms but noted as well the strong resistance encountered by the Inka as they moved to appropriate it.

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326  TAMARA L. BRAY

Although accounts of how and when this area was incorporated into Tawantinsuyu vary, the earliest sources as well as those most knowledgeable about the region generally agree that it was Topa Inka Yupanqui who made the initial forays into Ecuador (Atienza [1575?] 1931:21; Betanzos [1551–1557] 1996:143; Cabello Balboa [1586] 1951:321–330; Cieza de León [1553] 1995:133). It also seems fairly clear that Topa Inka spearheaded two separate campaigns to the north, both of which are traditionally presented as having occurred during the third quarter of the fifteenth century (Betanzos [1551–1557] 1996:116–121; Cabello Balboa [1586] 1951:321–339; Sarmiento [1572] 2007:146–153). During the first incursion, Inka forces seem to have conquered at least as far north as Cañari territory in the south-central highlands of Ecuador, reportedly taking several Cañari warlords prisoner and building an impregnable fortress at Quinchecaxa at the conclusion of this assault (Rowe 1985:211; Sarmiento [1572] 2007:148). By the time the second campaign was launched, many of the ethnic polities of the far northern highlands had purportedly joined forces to confront the imperial army. Sarmiento ([1572] 2007:150), for instance, noted that the Cañaris had allied themselves with warriors from the Quito region, who were led by a warlord named Pillaguaso. Even so, the Cuzqueños prevailed, pushing as far north as the “province of Yaguarcocha,” several leagues beyond Quito (Betanzos 1996 [1551–1557]:120. Topa Inka had the vanquished population of the circum-Quito area build a fortress for their new masters in which he installed a loyal contingent of gente demas confianza (most trusted people), most likely mitimaes, whom he provisioned well before departing and to whom he ordered obedience be paid (Betanzos 1996 [1551–1557]:120; Cabello Balboa [1586] 1951:322). It seems likely that it was during the second campaign that Topa Inka’s principal wife, Mama Ocllo, gave birth to his son and successor, Huayna Capac, at what we may infer was the already-established provincial center of Tomebamba (Betanzos 1996 [1551–1557]:120; Cabello Balboa [1586] 1951:339; Sarmiento [1572] 2007:152; see fig. 1.1, chapter 1). Upon his eventual return to Cuzco following his expeditions in the north, Topa Inka was reportedly named the imperial heir by his father, Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui (Cabello Balboa [1586] 1951:333). This suggests that the Quito region was initially conquered prior to Topa Inka’s actual investiture as king—the date of which is conventionally

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marked as a.d. 1471 (Rowe 1945:277) but which Rowe (2008:159) more recently revised to a.d. 1457 or 1458. Following the common template of the Inka dynastic narrative, it was subsequently left to the Sapa Inka’s successor—in this case Huayna Capac—to reconquer and reassert imperial authority in the rebellious provinces of the empire, among which was included the far northern realm of the circum-Quito region (also see chapter 17, by Schjellerup). Cabello Balboa ([1586] 1951) offers the most detailed account of Huayna Capac’s trials and tribulations with respect to the continuing northward advance of Tawantinsuyu in what proved to be the twilight years of the imperial enterprise. The base of operations for Huayna Capac’s northern assault was the imperial center, Tomebamba. It is clear from the historical evidence that this ruler had a special affinity for Tomebamba, underwriting its status as another Cuzco (Guaman Poma [1615] 1936:185; Idrovo 2000), making it the foundational site of his royal lineage, or panaca (Sarmiento [1572] 2007:185), and enhancing its importance through the construction of opulent temples (Cabello Balboa [1586] 1951:364–365; Murúa [1611] 1962:81–82). From this site, Huayna Capac launched a series of campaigns intended to reconsolidate the region around Quito proper and definitively conquer the yet-untamed polities that constituted the province of the Caranqui-Cayambe. The archaeological and ethnohistorical evidence pertaining to these campaigns and their aftermath provides important insights into the military strategies and terms of engagement of both the imperial state and the local resistance in the mature phase of empire. With respect to the timing of these events, we can take the generally agreed-upon date of Huayna Capac’s death, in a.d. 1527 or 1528 (see D’Altroy 2002:151–154; Rowe 2008), as a point of reference and work backward. Early documentary sources indicate that Huayna Capac was between seventy and eighty years of age when he succumbed to a previously unknown disease of probable European origin (Betanzos [1551–1554] 1996:182–185; Sarmiento [1572] 2007:185; Toledo [1571] 1940:173). This would suggest he was born between a.d. 1447/1448 and a.d. 1457/1458, indicating, in turn, that Tomebamba—his birthplace—and southern Ecuador must have been under fairly secure imperial control by at least a.d. 1455, and possibly a decade earlier. These dates contradict the traditional, historically

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Table 18.1. Reported Radiocarbon Dates from Inka Sites in Ecuador*

Site

Investigator(s)

Sample No.

Radiocarbon Age b.p. (1950)

Calibrated Age (2)

Caranqui

Bray and Echeverría (2011)

Beta-287760

450±40

a.d. 1420–1480

Quitoloma

Connell (2006–2007)

Beta-240836

380±40

a.d. 1440–1640

Quitoloma

Connell (2006–2007)

Beta-240835

330±40

a.d. 1450–1650

Campana

Connell (2006–2007)

Beta–240838

340±40

a.d. 1450–1650

Rumicucho

Chacón and Mejía (2006)

Beta-217664

590±60

a.d. 1290–1430

Rumicucho

Chacón and Mejía (2006)

Beta-217665

390±40

a.d. 1430–1530

Rumicucho

Chacón and Mejía (2006)

Beta-217666

390±50

a.d. 1430–1640

Palmitopamba

Lippi (2011)1

Beta-251457

480±40

a.d. 1410–1470

Palmitopamba

Lippi (2011)

Beta-201709

450±50

a.d. 1410–1510

Palmitopamba

Lippi (2011)

Beta-251461

400±40

a.d. 1430–1530

Palmitopamba

Lippi (2011)

Beta-251458

400±40

a.d. 1440–1640

Palmitopamba

Lippi (2011)

Beta-251459

390±40

a.d. 1440–1640

Palmitopamba

Lippi (2011)

Beta-251460

350±40

a.d. 1450–1650

Chimborazo

Yépez (2013)

UGAMS-16060

420±60

a.d. 1435–1487

Ingapirca

Alcina Franch (1981)

CSIC-322

690±80

a.d. 1300 and 13702

Ingapirca

Alcina Franch (1981)

CSIC-323

580±70

[not provided]

Ingapirca

Alcina Franch (1981)

CSIC-335, 337

550±60

a.d. 14103

Chamical

Ogburn (2012)

UGa-3457

450±30

a.d. 1414–1480

Chamical

Ogburn (2012)

UGa-3458

450±25

a.d. 1419–1468

Chamical

Ogburn (2012)

UGa-8803

440±25

a.d. 1422–1481

Chamical

Ogburn (2012)

UGa-3459

410±25

a.d. 1435–1515 a.d. 1616–1651

Chamical

Ogburn (2012)

UGa-8801

410±25

a.d. 1435–1515 a.d. 1600–1618

Chamical

Ogburn (2012)

UGa-8802

380±25

a.d. 1446–1523 a.d. 1572–1630

Chamical

Ogburn (2012)

UGa-3460

300±25

a.d. 1495–1602 a.d. 1616–1651

*Listed from north to south. 1. Personal communication, 2011. 2. Calibrated by Adamska and Michcsynzski (1996). 3. Calibrated by Adamska and Michcsynzski (1996).

derived chronology of Inka expansion into southern Ecuador, which has conventionally been marked as occurring between 1463 and 1471 (Rowe 1945). They do, however, accord better with the growing corpus of radiocarbon assays available from Inka archaeological contexts in Ecuador (table 18.1). When calibrated, the calendrical dates obtained are uniformly earlier within the 2δ range than would be expected based on the traditional chronology, falling mostly within the early and

Shimada_5545_18-pp3.indd 327

middle decades of the fifteenth century. This phenomenon of earlier-than-expected 14C dates from provincial Inka sites has been observed throughout the empire as the inventory of dated contexts continues to grow (D’Altroy et al. 2007; Adamska and Michczynski 1996; Ogburn 2012; Szilágyi et al. 2012; Pärssinen and Siiriäinan 1997; Pärssinen, this volume). As new assays are published, refined, and recalibrated, they are beginning to decompress the traditional historical chronology and

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328  TAMARA L. BRAY

reorient our understanding of the rhythm and timing of imperial expansion out of the Cuzco valley and into other regions. Returning to the northern frontier: the data suggest that Inka forces ultimately relied on previously established strongholds to the west and north of CaranquiCayambe territory to finally squeeze the defenders in a three-pronged pincer movement. The details pertaining to the “Caranqui Wars” as well as the role of the site of Inca-Caranqui following Huayna Capac’s hard-fought victory will be presented below, after a discussion of the physical setting and the ethnic makeup of this region. Ethnic Polities of Northern Highland Ecuador The territory comprising the northern frontier of Tawan­tinsuyu coincides with the northernmost provinces of Ecuador, up to and including the Colombian border region (fig. 1.1). From Quito north, this zone spans a distance of approximately one hundred kilometers, from the equator to about 0°50’N latitude. In modern political terms, the region encompasses the highland portions of Carchi, Imbabura, and northern Pichincha provinces. As is typical throughout the Ecuadorian Andes, this zone is bracketed by the eastern and western cordilleras, with both ranges containing a number of significant peaks. Most prominent among these are Cayambe (5,790 masl), the third-tallest mountain in Ecuador, which marks the approximate southeast corner of this region; Mojanda (4,260 masl), located opposite it near the southwestern corner; the rugged pinnacle of Cotacachi (4,940 masl), to the north in the western cordillera; and Chiles (4,723 masl), near the Colombian border and northwest corner of the region. A classic stratovolcano, Mount Imbabura (4,621 masl), sits between the two ranges, dominating the center of the inter-Andean basin that bears its name. The region also has a number of notable lakes, including San Pablo, associated with Mount Imbabura; Cuicocha, adjacent to Mount Cotachachi; and Yaguarcocha, located near the town of Ibarra. The general terrain of this region, like much of the Andes, can be characterized as rugged and complex, consisting of a mix of rolling hills, precipitous slopes, deeply incised valleys, and erosional gullies. The climate is temperate, with variations dependent upon

Shimada_5545_18-pp3.indd 328

altitude; rainfall is seasonal but generally abundant. The volcanic ash soils of the region are naturally fertile and have sustained high levels of agricultural productivity for millennia. The principal drainage within this region is the Chota-Mira River, which forms the dividing line between Carchi and Imbabura provinces. It is one of the few in Ecuador to breach the western cordillera and empty into the Pacific. Varying between 1,600 and 1,700 masl in this area, the warm, dry climate of the Chota-Mira valley has made it a resource zone of special importance for at least a millennium, having previously supported the production of such valuable subtropical crops as coca, cotton, indigo, and ají (Capsicum) (Bray 2005; Coronel 1991; Landázuri 1990). The region to the north of the Chota-Mira River comprised the territory of the Pasto, the northernmost ethnic group in highland Ecuador. To the south lay the province of the Caranqui-Cayambe nation. An overview of the political and economic organization of both these late pre-Columbian ethnic units is presented below. Caranqui-Cayambe The territory associated with the Caranqui-Cayambe population, as defined on the basis of archaeological (Athens 1980; Gondard and López 1983) and toponymic (Caillavet 1983; Salomon and Grosboll 1986) evidence, encompasses the region between the ChotaMira River, on the north, as mentioned above, and the Guayllabamba River, on the south and west (see fig. 18.1). The lateral boundaries are less well defined, although the eastern perimeter likely corresponds to the Continental Divide and the western one to the vicinity of the Intag River. The extent of this region is approximately 3,600 square kilometers. The protohistorical inhabitants of this area shared a lingua franca, if not a common mother tongue, as well as similar artistic traditions, subsistence technologies, and settlement patterns (Athens 1980, 1992; Borja [1591] 1965:249; Bray 1991)—suggesting a shared ethnic identity. The documentary sources, however, indicate that the regional populace was organized into a number of semi-autonomous political units on the order of small-scale chiefdoms (Salomon 1986). Among the most important of these were the Caranqui, Cayambe, Otavalo, and Cochasqui. Over the years there has been considerable debate regarding which, if any, of these polities was the more

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IMPERIAL ADVANCES ON THE NORTHERN FRONTIER  329

powerful during the late pre-Hispanic period. Espinosa (1983), for instance, argues for Caranqui preeminence, noting that it was in the territory of the Caranqui proper that the Inka chose to erect their imperial edifices (also Moreno 1981:158). Larrain (1980:117–130), on the other hand, considers the Cayambe to have been paramount, based on the purported leadership of their curaca, Nasacoto Puento, in organizing local resistance against the Inka. Caillavet ([1981] 2000:40; [1985] 2000:165–166) sees the Otavalo polity as regionally dominant because of its association with the important Lake San Pablo and the fact that its curaca (Otavalango) may have been the Inka-appointed governor at the beginning of the Colonial era. This variety of opinion likely reflects the heterarchical nature of regional political organization, with power being exercised along different dimensions and thus resulting in overlapping areas of authority and control (Bray 2008). The most salient feature of the cultural landscape of this region is the large earthen mounds known locally as tolas (fig. 18.2). The distribution of these features is

Figure 18.1. Map of the northernmost realm of Tawantinsuyu, comprising the territories of the ethnic Caranqui-Cayambe and Pasto populations. (Map prepared by Boleslo E. Romero)

Figure 18.2. Quadrilateral ramped mound (tola) at the site of Zuleta. (Photo by author)

Shimada_5545_18-pp3.indd 329

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330  TAMARA L. BRAY

coterminous with the extent of Caranqui territory and influence. Nearly one hundred such mound sites in Imbabura and northern Pichincha provinces were purportedly identified by air-photo interpretation (Gondard and López 1983), although only about seventy of these were ever ground-verified (Athens 1980, 1992; Osborn and Athens 1974; Bray 1991) and many have been destroyed in the intervening years. Most mound sites were found within a twenty-kilometer radius of Mount Imbabura, at elevations between 2,200 and 3,000 meters above sea level—the optimal maize-growing zone, as noted by Gondard and López (1983:103). While the number of earthworks per site varies greatly, ranging from 1 or 2 mounds to 148 at the largest known site, Zuleta, the majority of sites had between 10 and 40 such features. The mounds at these sites are either hemispherical or quadrilateral. The hemispherical type tends to predate the quadrilateral variety, with the construction of the latter thought to signal fundamental changes in sociopolitical organization. Radiocarbon dates indicate that the building of hemispherical mounds was an established practice in the northern highlands by at least a.d. 700. The appearance of quadrilateral mounds, particularly those with ramps, was a relatively late development and is used to mark the beginning of the Late Period (a.d. 1250–1525) (Athens 1980:125–137; Oberem 1981a:133–134). The smaller hemispherical mounds, which range from three to six meters in diameter and one to two meters tall, are typically funerary in nature ( Jijón y Caamaño [1952] 1997:312; Oberem and Hartmann 1981:50–53; Bray 2005:129–130). The larger hemispherical tolas, which can exceed ninety meters in diameter and ten to twelve meters in height, are generally thought to represent house mounds but often have burials associated as well (Athens 1980:127, 147–165; Jijón y Caamaño 1920:47–56; Wurster 1981:98). The quadrilateral mounds, the largest of which are up to two hundred meters on a side and ten to fifteen meters tall, served as platforms for large, circular, roofed structures containing baked clay floors and interior cooking features; burials have occasionally been found in association with these as well (Athens 1980:147–165, 2003; Jijón y Caamaño 1914:297, 1920:48–57; Kunter 1981:179–180; Oberem 1969a:322, 1981b:61–68; Pazmiño 2009). Although relatively few mound sites have been systematically excavated, those that have exhibit little

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evidence of long-term, permanent occupation. Instead, these sites contain small numbers of unusually large structures with prominent linear cooking features that may have served as elite and/or community houses. In addition to the funerary features, excavations have produced quantities of oversized cooking vessels and disproportionate numbers of amphorae (pondos) for the serving and storage of chicha (Athens 2003, 2012; Meyers 1981). The sum of the archaeological evidence suggests that the mound sites in this region were associated with ancestral burial grounds and intermittent social and ceremonial activities involving feasting. Ethnohistorical information and regional survey data support the idea that the Caranqui-Cayambe population lived in widely scattered settlements (Bray 1991; Caillavet [1988] 2000; Gondard and López 1983). Early reports on the region indicate that villages were separated from one another by distances of one to four leagues (6–24 kilometers) (Paz Ponce de León [1582] 1965:233–241; Espinosa 1983:48; Athens 1980) and that many people lived even further afield, in smaller hamlets or isolated homesteads (Caillavet [1988] 2000:140). These small settlements were often as far as 35–50 kilometers from the principal villages of the curacas with which they were affiliated (Larrain 1980:206). The large mound sites of the Pais Caranqui thus likely served as regional centers and ritual focal points for the periodic gathering of the highly dispersed population in what can be construed as a three-tiered settlement hierarchy. The communities of this region were also linked via a complex network of social and economic relations that involved the exchange of both goods and people. As Salomon (1986:135) notes, the polities of the northern highlands were both culturally and ecologically heterogeneous, with many controlling outlier enclaves in the western montaña and the Chota-Mira valley (also Caillavet [1989] 2000:53). A wide variety of practices served to facilitate the movement of people—both temporarily and on a more permanent basis—around the region. These included female exogamy (Oberem 1978:53; Salomon 1986:131–134), the exchange of children—apparently of either sex—between noble families (Oberem 1978:53), and the capture of boys and girls for the slave trade (Borja [1582] 1965:248), as well as economic practices like institutionalized trade and the utilization of both horizontally and vertically distant production zones. In addition to basic economic exchanges between

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households, there is evidence in the northern Andes for a specialized class of long-distance traders known as mindaláes, who were sponsored by individual curacas (Oberem 1978; Salomon 1978). These traders trafficked in goods of high prestige and unit value, such as coca, placer gold, chaquira (bone and shell beads), and metal objects like silver and gold beads, silver bracelets, tupu pins, and copper axe money (Salomon 1986:90– 95). Such sumptuary goods formed the political capital of the local elites. The evidence points to a considerable amount of complexity with respect to the political and economic organization of the Caranqui-Cayambe population. The different forms of exchange that have been documented served to generate bonds of kinship and economic ties of mutual dependency, as well as inevitable conflicts of interest. The dynamics of this situation created the conditions under which the ethnic polities of the Caranqui region sought, somewhat paradoxically, to both maintain their autonomous status and extend their web of connections. The history of shifting alliances, low-level conflicts, and permeability of boundaries that characterized the region is suggestive of the different political strategies in play during the late pre-Columbian period. It was likely the fluidity of local relations together with the dense network of regional ties that enabled the Caranqui nation to successfully confront the imperial Inka juggernaut for as long as it did. Pasto To the north of the Caranqui, the Carchi-Nariño region, which spans the Ecuador–Colombia border, was the homeland of the late pre-Hispanic period Pasto population (see fig. 18.1). Though as rugged as Imbabura province, the intermontane zone of this region is generally higher, colder, and wetter. As a consequence, maize was a much less prevalent crop here than it was among the Caranqui. Like their neighbors, the Pasto shared a common ethnic identity, expressed in the extant toponymic evidence and the late pre-Columbian ceramic styles, construction techniques, and settlement patterns (Martinez 1977; Rappaport 1988; Uribe 1977–78). In general, the region was densely populated, with villages located every few kilometers and containing on average fifteen to thirty households (Cieza de León [1553] 1995:110– 111; Uribe 1995:379). The typical Pasto house was a low circular dwelling known as a bohio. These were gen-

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erally small in size, on the order of three to four meters in diameter (Uribe 1977–78). Some villages contained two or three oversized bohios as well; these could be up to forty meters in diameter and may have been used for periodic community gatherings (Grijalva 1937:169– 170; Uribe 1995:379–381). Politically the people of this region were organized into territorial divisions that have been characterized as “decentralized chiefdoms” (Rappaport 1988; Uribe 1976). These were composed of multiple segmentary units, or parcialidades, organized on the basis of both dual and tripartite logic and among which authority rotated periodically (Rappaport 1988). These political entities spanned ecologically diverse regions and managed complex socioeconomic arrangements that involved the coordination of both noncontiguous production enclaves and different forms of trade and exchange. Among the various mechanisms of interzonal articulation that underwrote the Pasto economy were long-distance trade specialists, quasi-markets, nonspecialized middle-range trade, remotely located production enclaves, and “sharecropping” types of arrangements (Borja [1591] 1965:153; Oberem 1978; Salomon 1986:205–212). The fact that almost every Pasto village had mindaláes among its ranks suggests that control over the movement of exotic goods was less centralized here than elsewhere in the northern highlands (Salomon 1986:205–210). Though the Pasto did not engage in the construction of monumental earthworks, there is still considerable evidence for social stratification in this region. In particular, the deep shaft tombs for which the CarchiNariño region is famous clearly signal differences in social status, as do the contents of these graves. Elites were interred in tombs that could reach thirty to forty meters in depth, accompanied by multiple attendants and quantities of gold, silver, tumbaga (a ternary alloy of gold, silver, and copper), ceramic, and shell artifacts. Lesser nobility were buried in more moderately constructed tombs, on the order of seven to ten meters deep, while the graves of commoners were much shallower and generally lacking in offerings (Francisco 1969; Grijalva 1937; Uribe and Lleras 1982–1983). Though the Inka purportedly disparaged the Pasto as impoverished heathens not worth the trouble of conquest (Cabello Balboa [1586] 1951:384), it seems more likely that they had simply not completely effected the subjugation of this ethnic province prior to Pizarro’s arrival.

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The Footprint of Empire on the Northern Frontier Archaeological investigations conducted over the past half century indicate that Inka sites built in the provinces were well planned, regularly spaced, and fairly standardized in terms of layout and component parts (D’Altroy 1981; Gasparini and Margolies 1980; Hyslop 1984, 1990; Idrovo 2000; Julien 1983; Matos 1994; Morris and Thompson 1985; Raffino 2004). While this is not to say that detailed comparative work fails to reveal variability in specific elements, materials, modes of construction, etc. (see chapter 12, by Nair and Protzen), the overall impression is that the state required a considerable degree of conformity with respect to the built environment. In the equatorial Andes there seems to be a fairly limited repertoire of imperial Inka site types, although there is some evidence for innovation within the general parameters. Following Cieza de León ([1553] 1995:109–140), who journeyed through the northern realm of Tawantinsuyu in the 1540s, we can divide Inka sites in this region into two basic categories: fortalezas (or pucaras), referring to hilltop fortresses, and aposentos, a term that refers generically to “lodgings.” The archaeological evidence corresponding to these basic site types and the imperial advance on the northern frontier is presented below.

Pucaras Turning first to the category of hilltop fortresses, various early authors in addition to Cieza de León make note of this site type as being a particularly common element of the northern Andean landscape (Cabello Balboa [1586] 1951:364–384; González Suárez [1890] 1969; Humboldt [1803] 1968; Juan y Ulloa 1748). Plaza Schuller (1976, 1977) was the first to undertake a systematic study of the pucaras in northern Ecuador, identifying a total of thirty-seven through air-photo interpretation and follow-up fieldwork (see also Gondard and López 1983:109–129; Bray 1991:397–406). The distribution of these pucaras essentially forms a ring around the core of the Caranqui region, being spaced along the perimeter of this territory at a distance of 20–25 kilometers from a point centered on Lake San Pablo (Plaza 1976: lam. 1). The majority of these sites are found on isolated hilltops at elevations between 2,300 and 3,000 meters, although the seventeen identi-

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fied by Plaza (1977) as associated with the Pambamarca complex near Cayambe are all above 3,400 meters. One of the earliest ethnohistorical references to pucaras in the Caranqui territory is found in a lawsuit filed by a sixteenth-century curaca of Cayambe, Jerónimo Puento ([1583] 1974). In this document, a witness declares that the pucaras (of Pambamarca) were built over a period of eight or nine years during the time of the Inka wars (Mejía 1583, in Espinosa 1980:107). Though there is little doubt that the hilltop fortresses of the region date to the late pre-Columbian period, there has been a long-standing question as to whether these sites were local or Inkaic in origin, or possibly built and utilized by both sides. Plaza (1976:117) believed the latter to be the case—that these strongholds were important strategic nodes for both the Caranqui and the Inka during the prolonged imperial effort to wrest control of the region from local inhabitants. Up until recently the archaeological evidence for Inka occupation of the pucaras in Caranqui territory had been rather slim. The majority of the pottery recovered at these hilltop sites was local in origin (Plaza 1976, 1977; Fresco 1985; Bray 1991:397–406). Only Pucara Rumicucho—situated on the equator, directly north of Quito—had produced any substantial amount of Inka material (Almeida and Jara 1984). A few of the other sites in the southern portion of Caranqui territory, such as Pucara Guayllabamba and Pucara San Luis, had yielded minimal amounts of Inka ceramics in surface collections (Plaza 1976:44–50; Bray 1991:397–406), and the site of Quitoloma, though producing little in the way of imperial artifacts, was classified early on as an Inka garrison on the basis of its structural features (Oberem 1969b). Recent and substantial new excavations at Quitoloma and other pucaras within the Pambamarca complex, however, are beginning to resolve the question of cultural affiliation (González et al. 2006–2007). Artifacts, building materials, stratigraphic associations, and radiocarbon dates from several of the excavated hilltop sites1 clearly indicate that these pucaras were built and used by both the local population and imperial forces before and during the Inka incursion (Connell and Gifford 2006–2007:22–35). The stratigraphic evidence from Campana Pucara further suggests that these sites may have sometimes changed hands, with Inka forces expropriating and remodeling extant Caranqui fortifications (Gifford 2006–2007:198–207).

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In his regional survey, Plaza identified two distinct types of pucaras on the basis of both structural features and patterns of distribution (1976:86–87). The first is characterized by terracing that follows the natural contour of the hilltop, incorporating the steep slopes into the defensive structure of the site. This type is found primarily in the southern half of Caranqui territory. The second utilizes moats as the principal structural element. This latter type, which occurs primarily in the northern sector, tends to be situated on lower, flatter hilltops. Though he declined to assign cultural affiliation, it can be suggested on the basis of more recent archaeological evidence that pucaras characterized by the use of concentric terracing and steep slopes are Inka fortifications, while the northern style employing concentric moats is an indigenous manifestation. With regard to the probable Inka pucaras, there is little doubt that they were intended primarily as garrisoned strongholds. Their characteristic structural features, including strategic placement, terraced slopes, containment walls, and baffled doorways, all indicate a basic defensive function. Many sites have also produced weaponry, including slingstones (Almeida and Jara 1984:92; Cox 2006–2007; Lippi and Bray 2003; Oberem 1969b:201), projectile points (Oberem 1969b:200), and spear-thrower hooks (Almeida and Jara 1984:94). The principal function of the northern-style pucaras is less clear. Most are situated on low hills, and many have multiple, aligned openings in the concentric elements that define them. Neither of these characteristics suggests a concern with security. Recent work focusing on the positioning of these sites in the north and central highlands suggests a correlation with natural routes of transit, indicating a possible interest in the monitoring or control of movement (Bray 2004; Bray and Duda 2004). Others have proposed a possible religious function (Gondard and López 1983:115–116). Teasing apart the cultural associations and functional significance of these hilltop sites remains one of the important questions with respect to the archaeology of the northern imperial frontier.

Aposentos/Imperial Lodgings During his extended travels through the Inka Empire, Cieza de León ([1553] 1995) developed a strong comparative sense of imperial sites, which is clearly

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Figure 18.3. Map of Cieza de Leon’s route through northernmost Tawantinsuyu. (Map prepared by Boleslo E. Romero)

expressed in his descriptions of higher- and lower-order aposentos. In the northern sector of Tawantinsuyu, his observations suggest a three-tiered hierarchy of Inka lodgings or sites that provide a framework for discussion of the archaeological evidence. The three categories inferred from his writings may be abbreviated as follows: (1) “plain”—presumably run-of-the-mill— lodgings; (2) “luxurious”—such as the quarters found at the sites of Caranqui and Mocha; and (3) “paramount” royal settlements, such as described for Quito and Latacunga (fig. 18.3). With regard to the last class, paramount royal sites in the northern highlands, it is perplexing to note that we have little archaeological evidence of either Inka Quito or Inka Latacunga. This is in spite of the fact that Quito was portrayed by various early authors as being of great importance—on the order of a second Cuzco—and a purported favorite locale of the emperor Huayna Capac (Cieza de León [1553] 1943:263; Guaman Poma [1615] 1936:185; Salomon 1986:174). With respect to Inka Quito, although historical references are scant, the data suggest that the royal quarters were likely located immediately north of the Panecillo—a small, rounded hill in the south-central part of the modern city (Del Pino 2004:37; Estupiñán 1988; Oberem 1976:34). This corresponds to the area today occupied by the Convent and Plaza of San

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Francisco—the oldest church in Quito, upon which construction was initiated in 1535 (Castro and Fernandez 2011). One early document states that this church was “founded two blocks from the [central] plaza [of Quito] on the place where the most powerful captains of the Incas used to live[,] immediately to the west [of the plaza]” (Cosar [1647] 1924:1, cited in Teran 2011). Other sources indicate that this was the neighborhood in which Atahualpa’s son, El Auqui Topatauchi Inka, and associated members of the royal family resided during the early Colonial period (Estupiñán 1988). As part of a restoration effort, archaeological excavations were conducted beneath limited sections of the Convent of San Francisco in the early 1990s (Terán 1999, 2011). Deposits containing Inka and Panzaleo pottery were found in test units in the southeastern portion of the convent, as were numerous native burials dating to the early Colonial period and having local Caranqui, Panzaleo, and Inka ceramics associated with them (Terán 2011:132–155; Ubelaker and Ripley 1999). In other test units, investigators uncovered thick wall foundations of cut stone with interior rubble fill and clay mortar at 1.5 meters below the surface that appear to have constituted the original basal platform for the church (Terán 2011:126). Terán (2011:170) suggested that this feature may have represented an Inka wall, possibly associated with the central plaza of Inkaera Quito (also Del Pino 2004:38–40). A wall of similar size and construction that also reportedly had Inka ceramics associated with it was uncovered in salvage excavations at the historic Hospital of San Juan de Dios in central Quito in the 1980s (Rousseau 1989; Del Pino 2004:38). The hospital, built in 1565, is located approximately 350 meters south of the church of San Francisco. Elsewhere in the historic district of Quito, excavations at Casa del Cadisán— located about 500 meters east of San Francisco—also yielded evidence of a possible Inka wall (Delgado and Bravo 2002). Given the size of the central plazas at some provincial Inka centers (e.g., Huánuco Pampa, Incallacta, etc.), it is not inconceivable that these wall segments—at least the first two—could have been part of a single large architectural space comprising the center of Inkaic Quito (see Terán 2011:171; also Del Pino 2004:38–40). Overall, however, the general lack of concordance between the chroniclers’ comments regarding the northernmost “new” Cuzco and the archaeological evidence for Inkaic Quito remains somewhat enigmatic.

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The same can be said of Inkaic Latacunga, located about eighty kilometers south of Quito, in Cotopaxi province. According to Cieza, it was more than on par with Quito, there being no more sumptuous an imperial settlement along the Capac Ñan until one reached Tomebamba ([1553] 1995:134–136). Among the elements that impressed the chronicler the most were the richly sculpted walls of the Inka structures he observed, some of which he said still displayed cavities of inlaid gold adornments that had been previously looted ([1553] 1995:134). These ornate walls, he reports, would have been associated with the royal palaces of the Inka and the Temple of the Sun. The documentary evidence is clear on the fact that Latacunga and the surrounding region was densely populated with mitimaes (specialists who were permanently transplanted by the Inka state to serve its needs) following the conquest of the region by Topa Inka in the mid-1400s (Carrera

Figure 18.4. Inca aríbalo. 74 cm tall, 27.5 cm rim diameter. Casa de las Marqueses de Miraflores Museum, Latacunga, Ecuador. (Photo by author, 1998)

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Figure 18.5. Small central plaza at the Hacienda San Agustín de Callo with one of the standing buildings comprising original Inca kancha on right. (Photo by author)

1981; Cieza de León [1553] 1995:134–135; Navas 1990). The historic data also suggest that Inkaic Latacunga was governed by a high-level functionary (apu) assigned by the Sapa Inka and that the moiety logic of hanan and hurin was well established by the time of the Spanish invasion (Carrera 1981:136–138). Again, in this part of the empire the ethnohistorical information has not—or not yet—been corroborated by the archaeological evidence. Though a considerable quantity of imperial Inka pottery has been registered in local collections and at the Casa de Cultura in Latacunga (Bray 1998; Meyers [1976] 1997:202–204) (fig. 18.4), there have never been any Inka architectural remains recorded in or below the city. This is not to say that a systematic investigation of Latacunga and its immediate surroundings might not yet yield such evidence. Returning to Cieza’s typology of imperial lodgings, we have at the opposite end of the scale from the paramount royal settlements the “plain,” or third tier, Inka aposentos. From the Colombian border to Latacunga, the chronicler lists three such sites: Otavalo and Cochasqui, to the north of Quito, and Mulahaló, to

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the south (see fig. 18.3). The first two sites are within Caranqui territory, and no Inka architecture has ever been recorded at either, though extensive excavations have been conducted at the site of Cochasqui (Uhle 1923; Oberem 1981). The third aposento is located approximately twenty kilometers north of Latacunga and twenty kilometers southwest of an impressive volcano, Cotopaxi. Today a sleepy village, the site of Mulahaló was described by Cieza ([1553] 1995:133) as having been furnished with lodgings for the Inka and his captains that they used when passing through, as well as great numbers of storehouses for the provisioning of the imperial army. While the town of Mulahaló itself has no evidence of Inka structures, it may have formed a single complex or administrative unit with the Hacienda San Agustín de Callo, located six kilometers to the north, according to toponymic and archaeological evidence (Bray 2006; Carrera 1981). Preserved at San Agustín, and still in use, are several buildings of high-quality Inka cut-stone masonry organized in a kancha (a rectangular enclosure containing three or more rectangular buildings placed

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symmetrically around a central courtyard; see chapter 12, by Nair and Protzen) configuration of medium size (fig. 18.5). This imperial site was described by several early travelers subsequent to Cieza (see Humboldt [1803] 1968; Juan y Ulloa 1748) and has been the focus of periodic excavations over the past decade that, interestingly, have produced no Inka artifacts (Brown 2001; Vasquez 2005). The only second-order imperial aposento in the northern Ecuadorian highlands listed by Cieza (1995 [1553]: 122–126) is Caranqui, an important site that has been the subject of recent archaeoligical investigation. Inca-Caranqui Cieza was clearly impressed by the “large and luxurious” features of this imperial site, which he described in some detail, even though, as he notes, it was already in ruins

by the time he came upon it. The chronicler states that the Inka structures—among which he listed palaces, a richly adorned temple of the sun, and an aqllawasi, or House of “chosen women” who served the needs of the state—were constructed of “large, elegantly cut, and subtly fitted stones” and arranged around a small central plaza. Of special note at this site was what he described as “a pool [estanque] made of fine cut stone” (1995 [1553]:122). The modern village of Caranqui is situated on the northern slopes of Mount Imbabura, just a few kilometers south of Ibarra and the important Lake Yaguarcocha (see below). Given the number of large quadrilateral platform mounds formerly concentrated here, it is likely that this was one of the principal centers of the Caranqui polity (Bray and Echeverría, 2014). That there was also an Inka presence here has long been known, thanks to the preservation of two niched walls of pirca construction (a technique involving the use of

Figure 18.6. Semi-subterranean water temple at the site of Inca-Caranqui, looking northwest, with long southeast feeder canal in lower right of photograph; large void in floor of structure represents looters’ pit from early Colonial period. (Photo by author)

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unshaped fieldstones set in mortar) situated on private property near the village center (Bedoya 1979). These walls—located immediately east of the parish church, which is also said to have been built upon an Inka structure (Bedoya 1979:152)—constitute part of an Inka great hall that was at least 40 x 50 meters in size. In 2006, during exploratory investigations on the lot immediately northeast of the great hall, an elegant semi-subterranean structure that has since been interpreted as an Inka water temple was uncovered (Bray and Echeverría 2009; Bray 2013). Subsequent excavations over the past several years have revealed a series of additional Inka structures, foundations, stone-lined canals, and enclosure walls associated with these principal features (Bray and Echeverría 2010, 2011). These architectural elements make up the core of the site of Inca-Caranqui and appear to map fairly closely onto the center of the existing village of Caranqui (ibid.). The semi-subterranean water temple (fig. 18.6), which measures 10 x 16 meters in size and is accompanied by an impressive series of finely carved canals, spouts, and drains, is undoubtedly the pool feature remarked upon by Cieza. The flow of water both into and out of this structure was clearly key to whatever ritual activities were performed here, as was the probable human movement into and out of this space via the series of stepped entrances located at each of the four corners (Bray 2013). Excavation of this structure revealed two separate flooring episodes involving two different styles of finely cut and fitted flagstones, the lower floor comprising larger-sized, square pavers and the upper comprising smaller, polygonally shaped stones (Bray and Echeverría 2010). There were also two different types of canals documented at the site that, in some cases, were found to precisely parallel one another. These data suggest that the site was at least partially remodeled at some point in its short history (Bray and Echeverría 2011). While the Inka incorporated baths and water features into many, if not most, imperial sites, the water temple at Inca-Caranqui looks like something different. Though it bears some resemblance to the waterrelated architecture at Huayna Capac’s royal estate in the Urubamba valley (see Niles 1999; also chapters 12 and 13, by Nair and Protzen, and Niles, respectively), the pool at Caranqui is distinct in its dimensions, its manipulation of flow (both human and aqueous), and the seemingly performative intent of the space. It is also clearly different from Inka baths documented at other

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provincial sites (e.g., Tomebamba, Huánuco Pampa, and Pumpu), which are much smaller (2–3 m2) and more suited to private bathing rites (Bray 2013). The unusual size and configuration of the pool at Caranqui points to its possible ritual use by larger numbers of people that might, in turn, suggest the possibility of performances or activities of a more public nature. This feature also speaks to new imperial interests in the large-scale capture and control of water that may reflect evolving strategies of statecraft in the latter phases of Inka rule. The site of Inca-Caranqui figures prominently in the chroniclers’ accounts of late Inka history. It is closely associated with Yaguarcocha, or “Blood Lake,” where imperial Inka forces finally subdued the defiant Caranqui after many long years of warfare. In retribution for their intractable behavior, Huayna Capac ordered the massacre of the entire adult male population near the lakeshore where the combatants had sought refuge. So many were slaughtered that the waters of the lake were said to have turned red with blood, giving it the name by which it is still known today. On the basis of various clues gleaned from the ethnohistorical record, including information on the life history of Huayna Capac, Atahualpa’s age at time of death, and the history of the “guambracuna,” we believe the end of the Caranqui wars likely occurred sometime between 1518 and 1522 (Bray and Echeverría, 2014). The conquest of the Caranqui was Huayna Capac’s last major military campaign, and the battle that took place at Yaguarcocha his last major victory. Montesinos ([1644] 1957:111) states that not long after this battle, Huayna Capac ordered the construction of a settlement “based on the design of Cuzco” to be built at Caranqui for his court—no doubt to commemorate his hardwon control over this region. Betanzos ([1551–1557] 1996:202–204), however, provides a different account of Caranqui that includes no mention of Huayna Capac, although he does note that it was this ruler who defeated the “men of Yaguarcocha” (183). Rather, Betanzos indicates that it was Atahualpa who ordered the construction of a palace at Caranqui to serve as the site of his wedding to Cuxirimay (who had become Betanzos’s wife by the time of his writing) and his investiture as the new Sapa Inka (202–204). That said, it also seems clear from Betanzos’s narrative that the Inka settlement of Caranqui already existed by the time Atahualpa was issuing his commands. The archaeological data from Caranqui help to

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clarify and corroborate the incongruent ethnohistoric information, offering material evidence in support of both historic accounts. Taken together, the two lines of evidence suggest that the site was originally constructed by Huayna Capac to mark his victory and establish a base of operations for expansion farther north. The fact that the semi-subterranean temple was at some point repaved with a different style of masonry, together with other architectural evidence from the site, further implies that it was being refurbished for some new or enhanced purpose. This remodeling event could well relate to the preparations made by Atahualpa to formally receive the insignia of office following the death of his father (Bray and Echeverría, 2014). The End of Empire The site of Caranqui and the circum-Quito region of the equatorial Andes figure prominently in the final chapters of the Inka Empire. Atahualpa had been en route from the northern frontier to the capital of Cuzco—to attain recognition of his status as the new Sapa Inka— when he was captured by Pizarro at Cajamarca in late 1532. Shortly after his imprisonment, one of his generals, Rumiñawi, fled back to Quito with some of Atahualpa’s offspring and royal wives, though whether this was upon the orders of the Inka or not is unclear (Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés [1534] 1851–1855:228; Estupiñán 2003). Atahualpa was subsequently executed, in July 1533. His body was buried by the Spaniards but disinterred shortly thereafter and reportedly delivered into the hands of Rumiñawi in Ecuador (Murúa [1611] 1962:222; Betanzos [1551–1557] 1996:274; Estupiñán 2011:192–193)—the remains of the ruler being one of the key elements in the transferal of power and imperial succession (MacCormack 1991; also see chapter 14, by Kaulicke). After the arrival of Spanish reinforcements in early 1534, one of Pizarro’s captains, Sebastián de Benalcázar, set out towards Quito in pursuit of treasure and to secure the northern realm of Tawantinsuyu, while the main body of Spanish forces headed south (Cieza de León [1553] 1998:268–284; Jijón y Caamaño [1936] 1983). In Ecuador the Inka resistance against the Europeans was led by Rumiñawi and the Inka governor of the northern frontier region, Zopozopagua (Cieza de León [1553] 1998:290–293; Estupiñán 2003:61–69, 2011:191; Salomon 1986:184). Their mission was

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undoubtedly to both defeat the Spaniards and secure the empire for the Quiteño-based faction of Inka royals. The troops they commanded likely consisted mainly of mitimaes resettled in the region a generation or two earlier, as the documentary evidence suggests that many members of the indigenous population quickly allied themselves with the European invaders (Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés [1534] 1851–1855:241; Salomon 1986:181–182). After failing to stop Benalcázar’s advance in the central highlands, the defenders retreated to Quito. Here they gathered up what remained of the Inka population and fled west to the tropical forest zone (montaña or ceja de selva) of the Yumbos, on the western flanks of the Andes (Cieza de León [1553] 1998:290–293; Estupiñán 2003; Salomon 1986:183–184). Benalcázar’s men followed in pursuit, capturing most of the Inka’s women and children as well as the precious objects they had taken with them, although the military unit escaped to fight on for some months more (Cieza de León [1553] 1998:292–293, 304–306; Estupiñán 2003). The decision on the part of the Quiteño Inkas to seek refuge in the tropical forests of the Yumbos seems curious at first glance. The Inka often displayed a scornful attitude toward this region and its inhabitants, referring to the Yumbos as “naked savages” not worth the trouble of conquest (Cabello Balboa [1586] 1951:438). But it is clear from the archaeological and ethnohistorical evidence that the people of the montaña region on either side of the equatorial Andes maintained close contact with their highland neighbors and played a key role as middlemen and traders in the greater northern Andean realm (Bray 2005; Lippi 1998, 2004; Oberem 1980; Salomon 1997). So while this region might have been antithetical to the normative domain of the Inka, it was not a sector they could afford—or necessarily wanted—to ignore (see also chapter 17, by Schjellerup). The fact that the tropical forest zone was viewed as a safe haven in both the Quito and Cuzco regions (e.g., Vilcabamba) in the final days of empire suggests that there was a more complex relationship between the imperial state and the tropical forest tribes than is typically portrayed. In the equatorial Andes, an unusual number of sites with evidence of an Inka presence have been identified in the montaña of the western slopes in the circumQuito region. These include Palmitopamba (Lippi and Bray 2003; Lippi and Gudiño 2010), Chakapata and Capillapamba ( Jara 2007:50–51), Malqui-Machay

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(Estupiñán 2011), and, potentially, the still-enigmatic site of Tulipe ( Jara 2006; Salomon and Erickson 1984). Though contact between the Inka and Yumbo likely occurred fairly early on in the northern campaigns, the ethnohistorical information has typically been taken to suggest that the region was never fully incorporated into the conceptual landscape of the Inka (Salomon 1986:182–184, 1997). Possibly the Inka were unable or unwilling to impose their power upon the Yumbo, although this seems unlikely (see Alguiler [1582] 1965:246, for example). A more viable hypothesis is that the Cuzqueños developed a distinctive mode of engagement with the tropical forest inhabitants that was potentially more accommodating than normal due to the key role they played in interregional and longdistance trade networks (Salomon 1986:184). Recent archaeological investigations at late pre-Columbian period sites in the western montaña should provide new insights into how the state interacted with the “culturally alien” tribes of the outer slopes of the Andes and the role of this region as a zone of refuge for the Inka— significant issues within the scope of the larger imperial narrative still to be elucidated. Conclusions In sum, though many details remain to be filled in by the archaeological record, the story emerging on the northern frontier is a compelling one that promises to augment our understanding of the evolution of Tawantinsuyu and specific strategies of statecraft, accommodation, and resistance during the final phases of imperial rule and the immediate post-conquest period. The equatorial Andes offer an opportune setting for opening new lines of inquiry regarding the rhythm and timing of Inkaic expansion, their approaches to interacting with dissimilar political-economic formations, and the strategic use of distinct ecozones. These important issues could be fruitfully engaged on the northern frontier by directing research efforts toward the following aims. First, a more systematic archaeological survey of the montaña sector would enhance our understanding of how the Inka engaged with the people and resources of this zone. Second, while numerous large mound sites have been identified in the northern Ecuadorian highlands, few have ever been formally tested or excavated. Archaeological investigation of these obviously important late pre-Hispanic

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centers would offer new insights into imperial strategies of statecraft on the northern frontier, as would further excavations at the pucaras found throughout the region. Another important area of investigation for Inka studies concerns the strategic emplacement and role of mitimaes in the imperial agenda. Research efforts directed toward the archaeology of mitimaes would provide a useful framework for future investigations in the vicinity of both Latacunga and El Quinche. These and other research initiatives on the northern frontier will serve to augment our understanding of Inka imperialism at the end and ends of empire. Acknowledgments Research at the site of Inca-Caranqui was conducted in collaboration with my colleague José Echeverría, and with grants from the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Wenner-Gren Foundation, the National Geographic Society, and Dumbarton Oaks, all of whose support we gratefully acknowledge. I would also like to highlight the important work of many colleagues in helping to expand our knowledge of the Inka on the northern frontier, including, in particular, Eduardo Almeida, David Brown, Chantal Caillavet, Sam Connell, Tamara Estupiñán, Antonio Fresco, Chad Gifford, Ronald Lippi, Albert Meyers, Dennis Ogburn, and Frank Salomon. I would also like to thank Boleslo  E. Romero for his masterful assistance in creating the maps for this article. Note

1. The pucara sites excavated by the Pambamarca Archaeological Project between 2002 and 2007 are Campana Pucara (Inka), Quitoloma (Inka), Pukarito (Cayambe/local), and Pingulmi (Cayambe/local). Bibliography Adamska, Anna, and Adam Michcznski

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“Names and People in Incaic Quito: Retrieving Undocumented Historic Processes through Anthroponymy and Statistics.” American Anthropologist 88:387–399.

Sarmiento, Pedro

(1572) 2007  The History of the Incas. Trans. and ed. Brian S. Bauer and Vania Smith. Austin: University of Texas Press. Szilágyi, V., J. Gyarmati, M. Toth, H. Taubald, M. Balla, Z. Kasztovszky, and G. Szakmany

2012

“Petro-mineralogy and Geochemistry as Tools of Provenance Analysis on Archaeological Pottery: Study of Inka Period Ceramics from Paria, Bolivia.” Journal of South American Earth Sciences 36:1–17.

Terán, Paulina

1999

2011

Puento, Jerónimo

(1583) 1974  “Probanza de Don Hieronimo Puento, cacique principal del pueblo de Cayambe.” In Documentos para la historia militar, 11–50. Quito: Casa de Cultura Ecuatoriana.

“Pochteca and Mindalá: A Comparison of Long-­ Distance Traders in Ecuador and Mesoamérica.” Journal of Steward Anthropology 9:231–247. Los Yumbos, Niguas y Tsáchilas o “Colorados” durante la colonia española: Etnohistoria del noroccidente de Pichincha, Ecuador. Quito: Abya-Yala. Native Lords of Quito in the Age of the Incas. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Salomon, Frank L., and Clark L. Erickson

Pärssinen, Martti, and Ari Siiriäinen

1997

“Absolute Chronology in the Andean Area.” American Antiquity 10:265–284. “Inca Culture at the Time of Spanish Conquest.” Handbook of South American Indians, Vol. 2, edited by Julian H. Steward, pp. 183–330. Washington, DC: Bureau of American Ethnology Bulletin 143. “Probanza de los Incas nietos de conquistadores.” Histórica 9:193–245.

Salomon, Frank

Ogburn, Dennis E., Samuel V. Connell, and Chad H. Gifford

2009 “Provisioning of the Inka Army in Wartime: Obsidian Procurement in Pambamarca, Ecuador.” Journal of Archaeological Science 36:740–751.

“Informes arqueológicos de las excavaciones realizadas en la iglesia del Hospital San Juan de Dios.” Manuscript on file, IEOS, Quito.

“El mercado prehispánico y la sobreposición ideológica del siglo XVI en el valle de Quito.” In El área septentrional andina norte: Arqueología y etnohistoria, ed. Mercedes Guinea, 257–276. Quito. “Investigación arqueológica.” In San Francisco: Una historia para el futuro, ed. José Mercé and José Gallegos, 102–172. Quito: Instituto Nacional de Patrimonio Cultural.

Toledo, Francisco de

(1571) 1940  “Información comenzada en el valle de Yucay . . .” In Don Francisco Toledo, supremo organizador del Perú: Su vida, su obra (1515–1582), ed. Roberto Levillier, 2:122–177. Buenos Aires: Espasa-Calpe. Ubelaker, Douglas H., and Catherine E. Ripley

1999

The Ossuary of San Francisco Church, Quito, Ecuador: Human Skeletal Biology. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution.

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Uhle, Max

1923

Estudio sobre las civilizaciones del Carchi e Imbabura. Quito: Talleres Tipográficos Nacionales.

Vasquez, C. Josefina

2005

Uribe, María Victoria

1976

“Relaciones prehispánicas en el altiplano de Ipiales, Colombia.” Revista Colombiana de Antropología 20:11–24. 1977–1978  “Asentamientos prehispánicos en el altiplano de Ipiales, Colombia.” Revista Colombiana de Antropología 21:57–195. 1995 “Los Pasto y etnias relacionadas: Arqueología y etnohistoria.” In Área septentrional andina norte: Arqueología y etnohistoria, ed. José Echeverría, 367–438. Quito: Banco Central del Ecuador. Uribe, María Victoria, and Roberto Lleras

1982–1983  “Excavaciones en los cementerios protopasto en Miraflores-Nariño.” Revista Colombiana de Antropología 24:335–379.

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“Between Latacunga and San Agustín de Callo: Tanicuchi, Six Centuries of Prehispanic Occupation in the Central Highlands of Ecuador.” MA thesis, Northern Arizona University, Flagstaff.

Wurster, Wolfgang

1981

“Aportes a la reconstrucción de edificios con planta circular sobre las pirámides con rampa de Cochasquí.” In Cochasqui: Estudios arqueológicos, ed. Udo Oberem, 79–124. Colección Pendoneros 3. Otavalo: Instituto Otavaleño de Antropología.

Yépez, Alden

2013

“Excavaciones en dos sitios arqueológicos del volcán Chimborazo, Parroquia San Juan, Provincia Chimborazo.” Unpublished report on file at SENESCYT, Quito.

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PA R T V

Impacts of the Spanish Conquest

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C H A P T E R 19

Three Faces of the Inka Changing Conceptions and Representations of the Inka during the Colonial Period Tetsuya Amino In its final days the Inka Empire experienced, in rapid succession, a series of major incidents with far-reaching consequences: the Battle of Cajamarca in 1532; the capture and execution of the reigning ruler, Atahualpa, at the order of the conquistador Francisco Pizarro the following year; and the triumphal entry of the Spaniards into the imperial capital of Cuzco. Seemingly in an instant, Inka political and administrative systems ceased to function, and the unity of the “four quarters” (Tawan­ tinsuyu, as the Inkas called their imperial domain in the Quechua tongue) was disrupted. Also, the servile and often-displaced peoples within the state—such as the mitimaes and yanaconas—now liberated from the Inka yoke, began returning to their native locales or attaching themselves to the Spanish newcomers. Parallel to these processes, which destroyed the empire, understandings of the Inka, as well as the meanings and images associated with the ruling elite, were also transformed. As time passed, the subsequent understandings, meanings, and images multiplied across various contexts in the colonial Andes. In this chapter I seek to identify and characterize changing perceptions of the Inka as they were reinterpreted and reimagined within the diverse new contexts and realities of the Colonial period. I work from a variety of rich though unevenly tapped archival sources, not least the local judicial records deposited at the Regional Archive of Cuzco (Archivo Regional del Cusco) and trial proceedings of the tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition in seventeenth-century Lima. My aim is to capture and examine how the Inka were understood from a variety of points of view in the years after the empire was brought to an end by the Spanish wars of conquest. I explore not only the perspectives of the Inkas’ dynastic descendants and the commentating Spaniards who sought to govern the Andean world, but

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also those of the indigenous population and persons of mixed race, who often inhabited society’s lower stations and are usually not directly connected to Inka culture and its history. Before the conquest, Inka society preserved its history through oral transmission and memory. Confronted with a history that, to the minds of those accus, seemed to be pretomed to a world of écriture (writing)������������������� served in a highly unstable manner, Spaniards moved to engrave histories of the Inka and Andean past in writing. After the events at Cajamarca, many eyewitnesses, such as Francisco de Jerez, began to record information not only about the conquest, but also about various aspects of Andean society they had personally observed (see chapter 2, by Salomon). Pedro de Cieza de León, príncipe de los cronistas (prince of the chroniclers), traversed the Andean world and constructed a detailed and comprehensive history of the Inkas based on his meticulous research and on “anthropological” interviews with aged local informants and Inka descendants. After the conquest, many Spaniards married princesses of the Inka royal family, and one of these men, Juan de Betanzos, wrote a highly informative history of the Inkas, based upon his profound knowledge of the official history of the Inka court (see chapters 2 and 14, by Salomon and Kaulicke, respectively). Through such cronistas, the broad contours of Inka history have been clearly delineated in the written records. However, these histories were often imbued with personal agendas and ideologies, or became arenas for the arguments of those advancing their own economic and political interests. Meanwhile, far below the social level of the Spanish chroniclers, the image of the Inka kings, who were believed to have wielded a tremendous and preternatural power in governing the old Andean world, became a source of mystical hope for the oppressed classes seek-

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ing liberation from coercive colonialist society, including subaltern women, who suffered emotional and material duress at the bottom of this male-dominated society. After the conquest, various images of the Inka began to be forged and nurtured by people in diverse social contexts: among conquerors and conquered alike, and among women as well as men, they were transformed into a multifaceted entity. The confines of a short chapter do not allow full treatment of the multiple faces of the Inka in colonial times. Yet in order to provide as systematic an understanding of the multivalent character of the Inka as possible, I hypothesize three phases of Inka historicization, a model I have previously employed to analyze the diversity of the Inka image (Amino 2003, 2008a, 2008b).1 I shall introduce the character of each phase of the model briefly before proceeding. The first phase involves the historicization of the Inka that emerged when, relying heavily on the historical reality of the Inka Empire, post-conquest native leaders (especially those claiming descent from the Inka royal line) attempted to integrate this historicity with the various political discourses then circulating in colonial society. As we shall see, when people who had never had any relationship with the Inka attempted to appropriate the historicized Inka for their own interests in the colonial era, a re-historicization of the Inka occurred, constituting the second phase. Moreover, there emerged an array of people who disassociated the Inka from their historical context, drawing on the mystical and transcendental power they presumed the Inka rulers to have possessed, and applying this power to their own ends. In the world of the imagination among those suffering in colonial society’s lower stations, an ahistorical and utopian version of the Inka was forged, a de-historicization and third phase that interacted in complex ways with vital continuations of the earlier phases, the historicized and the re-historicized Inka. Thus, the image of the Inka was fertile ground for a great range of contemporaries. Historicization of the Inka Thanks to such keen and curious cronistas as Cieza de León, an overall image of Inka history emerged and spread in the written record. Yet there were many other people too who, taking advantage of the malleability of a history not yet solidified, recorded matters in order to achieve personal political aims or to better their posi-

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tion in the new order of colonial society, which still allowed some degree of social mobility. While it is true that the Spaniards were in the most privileged position to manipulate the written record—that is, to historicize the Inka as they wished—they were not alone in resorting to such self-centered schemes. It is worth noting that indigenous peoples, the majority of whom still lacked a familiarity with European written culture in the middle decades of the sixteenth century, also took up the creative process of history-making. A well-known example is presented by the shrewd activities of Callapiña, the curaca (ethnic leader) of Pacaritambo, situated southeast of Cuzco and one of the legendary birthplaces of the Inka dynasty (Urton 1990; see chapters 3, 4, and 15, by Cerrón-Palomino, Shinoda, and Pärssinen, respectively). In 1569 Calla­ piña presented a petition to the authorities at Cuzco that claimed he was the direct descendant of the first Inka king, Manco Capac. He contended further that the cave in his town called Tamputoco was the spot from which the four brothers and four sisters—including Manco, the primordial ancestor of the Inkas and the founder of the capital of Cuzco—had emerged. As a result of this petition, Pacaritambo was firmly established as the historical site of origin of the Inka dynasty. Such indigenous involvement in the process of Inka historicization was not limited to the case of Callapiña. As readers of this book will observe, researchers remain extremely circumspect in discussing details of the Inka dynasty, in particular the kings who reigned before Pachacuti (see, for example, Bauer and Smith, or Pärssinen). Although even today there are distinct ideas about concrete aspects of the Inka dynasty’s historicity, the standard thesis—that the long genealogy of the Inka clan was established by eleven or twelve consecutive kings, beginning with Manco Capac, founder of the Inka family—has been generally accepted among contemporary Peruvians, and it is common for most works on Inka history to assume the existence of twelve kings as their starting point. As the late Catherine Julien posited in her magnificent study ( Julien 2000), it is likely that a prototype for the dynastic history of the Inka kings was already in place before the Spanish arrival, serving as a source from which an official dynastic history would spring after the conquest. That said, it bears noting that such a pre-Hispanic form would be one of many critical contributors to the formalization of an official history of the Inka dynasty. There was a great deal that influenced the intentions and concerns of the

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Inka nobility who had survived the conquest and were living in Cuzco under Spanish rule. After the conquest the remaining people of Inka lineage were congregated (reducidos) into eight parishes (parroquias) in Cuzco and required to pledge eternal loyalty to their new overlord, the king of Spain. By so doing, they guaranteed their status as nobility within the Spanish royal order. They not only were permitted to use the titles “Don” and “Doña” as indicators of their nobility but also received other noble privileges, and were exempted from the tribute and forced labor (mit’a) required of Indian commoners. Thus was a specially honored class of Indians formed in the old Inka capital. A number of interesting documents concerning this status are extant in Cuzco’s archives. These documents are interleaved with several bundles of papers in the Archivo Regional del Cuzco. Examples among them are addressed to “the descendants of Viracocha Inka,” to “the descendants of Gran Topa Yupanqui,” and to “the descendants of the Gran Lloque Yupanqui y Mayta Capac.” It is known, for instance, that in 1544– 1545, Carlos I (Karl V) decreed that descendants of the Inka royal kin groups (panaca) living in Cuzco should be granted family insignia of nobility. Each royal family was permitted to use as their original coat of arms designs such as the mascapaycha (fringe made of dark red wool, imperial insignia of Sapa Inka, supreme Inka), condor, lion, snake, sun, rainbow, and so on (ARC, Corregimiento: Causas Ordinarias, leg.  49, exp. 1122; Libro de Betancur I/II; see chapter 11, by Phipps).2 It is assumed that a crónica called the Relación de los Quipucamayos, compiled at the time, was the first unilateral dynastic history—with the first king being Manco Capac and the eleventh Huayna Capac—set into writing (Someda 1998). Thus it could be said that it was about ten years after the conquest when what would become established as the common dynastic history was beginning to fully take shape. In order to be granted the heraldries of nobility by the Spanish court, supplicants first had to present to the authorities a petition (petición) to that effect; we would be correct to suppose that the Inka nobility themselves recognized the importance of such an act in that period, just as the official history of the Inka was being solidified. As a consequence, the exclusive right of each royal family (panaca) became established, as made visible in their contemporary coats of arms.

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The aristocratic honor granted to Inka descendants—effectively established with the official Inka history of twelve kings—was further enhanced by the office of the “alférez real [royal standard-bearer] of the Inka nobles of the eight parishes of Cuzco” (Amado 2002). To elect this officer, a parent committee known as the “twenty-four electors of Inka nobility” was founded. This was a unique organization without any parallel in other colonial societies in Latin America (Dean 1999; Amado 2002; Garret 2002). Each year in Cuzco on July 25, the Feast of Santiago—the patron saint of Spain and of the conquistadores—was celebrated. During the feast’s procession, directly following the alférez real of the Spaniards elected by the Spanish residents in Cuzco, an indigenous bearer nominated by the twenty-four electors of Inka nobles would march, wearing the mascapaycha on his forehead and holding the royal standard in his hands. According to a late eighteenth-century document that explains the context of the establishment of this custom, the exclusive privilege to wear the mascapaycha was constituted by Carlos I at this same time, along with the right to own a heraldic insignia. As such, we may presume that the origin of the imperial grant shared the trajectory that saw the creation of the twelve-king dynastic history. The election of the alférez real was officially instituted in 1595. In one report, written by Agustín Jara de la Cerda, the Spanish judge in charge of Indian legal cases (alcalde y juez de naturales), the process of the election of the alférez real is described in detail. In the first place, the judge settled the procedure for selecting one alférez real by secret ballot. As is well known from various contemporary chronicles, the Inka panacas in Cuzco were divided into an upper moiety (hanan) and a lower moiety (hurin); the judge ordered each moiety to nominate twelve members to constitute a committee of twenty-four electors. A ledger to record the minutes was purchased, and thus the election was held (ARC, Corregimiento: Causas Civiles, Leg. 2, Exp. 46). Because the electors designated by the twelve royal families were permitted to wear the royal fringe, they too were called the “legitimate Inkas of the mascapaycha” and could process through the streets of Cuzco marked as Inka nobles. The processions of the Feast of Corpus Christi have been recorded vividly in a series of paintings known as the “Santa Ana Series,” thought to have been painted in the second half of the seventeenth century. The feast of Corpus Christi was rivaled by, and in some ways sur-

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Figure 19.1. Seventeenth-century painting of the procession of Corpus Christi in Cuzco. Artist unknown. Museo de Arte Religioso del Palacio Arzobispal de Cusco. (Photo courtesy Yutaka Yoshii)

passed, that of Santiago himself in local importance. In one such image (fig. 19.1) a festive float is seen being drawn through the streets, accompanied by Inka nobles depicted in costumes that, while appearing to date from the Inka period, in fact mix in elements and designs of European origin; one individual even wears the mascapaycha on his forehead. The official history of the Inka dynasty was thus visualized and historicized through the very “bodies” of those calling themselves Inka nobility (Dean 1999; Okada 2008; Amino 2008a, 2008b). Of course, the desire held by these Inka descendants to secure their position—to historicize the Inka in their own ways—was not realized without hindrance. In the 1570s in particular, during the reign of the fifth viceroy of Peru, Francisco de Toledo, the path of Inka historicization was seriously affected. This viceroy—who was determined to establish the absolute authority of the Spanish throne over Peruvian colonial society and to justify in a decisive manner the Spanish conquest— sought to deny any greatness that might be associated with the Inka and their empire. Far into colonial times, memories of the Inka Empire were��������������������� �������������������� revived by the mate-

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rial remains of their sophisticated state system, such as the skillfully constructed buildings in every region or the remnants of the Inka road network, even though so much had been destroyed during and after the wars of conquest. It might be appropriate to say that Toledo was forced to vilify the Inka Empire, perhaps even out of envy for the Inkas’ accomplishments and prosperity.3 Toledo and the chroniclers working for his vision equated the Inka Empire with a despotic state, and defined the Inka kings as tyrants. The viceroy dispatched visitadores (royal inspectors) to all regions to distribute questionnaires among the indigenous population; these documents were intentionally designed to extract answers affirming how brutally the Inka kings had conquered the regions, and then imposed overbearing demands and administered them in a despotic fashion (Levillier 1940). The local Indian curacas who became the informants of the viceroy’s officers responded as Toledo wished, and related how the Inka had wielded a reckless conquest and rule over them. Based on these investigations, Viceroy Toledo entrusted one of his retinue, the well-educated cronista Sarmiento de Gamboa, to write a History of the

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Inkas that would authoritatively propagate the image of a tyrannical Inka kingdom. Toledo’s sole interest in history was in manipulating it for his own ideological or profitable purposes, and while it may be considered an example of an attempt at a re-historicization of the Inkas, which will be discussed in the next section, it may also be considered under a related concept of ahistoricity. Toledo’s attacks on the Inka did not end with his brand of re-historicization. He launched a moppingup strategy against the remaining groups of rebellious Inkas holed up, after the wars of conquest, in Vilcabamba on the eastern slope of the Andes. In 1572 he finally captured Tupac Amaru I, who claimed a line of royal descent from the last Inka king to himself; Toledo had him executed via beheading in Cuzco’s main square (Hemming 1970). That was not all. It is true that there were those among the descendants of the Inka who, while having chosen the path of defiance, nonetheless—and as we have already seen—gratefully received the������� heral������ dic insignias of nobility from Carlos I, and cooperated amicably with the Spanish regime when it suited their interests. Viceroy Toledo, who abhorred the existence of even these most obedient Inka nobles, decided that some of them should be permanently exiled to the viceroyalty of New Spain, and set them on their way by dispatching them to the coastal “City of the Kings,” the capital of Peru, today’s Lima (Nowack and Julien 1999). It was fortunate for these Colonial-era Inkas that opposition to Toledo’s arbitrary policies arose among the Spaniards; this Mexican exile of the Inka nobility never took place, and they returned safely to the old Inka capital. Yet even with the abandonment of the exile order, the Inka nobles struggled to secure a place within colonial society. Their colonial authority rested in their often latent power to unify the native population of Cuzco, and in the creation and maintenance of the electorate of the twenty-four Inka nobles. From the records that Toledo gathered in order to prove his thesis of Inka tyranny, there also emerged some unexpected conclusions, most notably an image of the Inka not only as oppressive dictators, but also as unstinting benefactors. For example, an examination of the inspection (visita) records carried out in the Huanca region of central Peru reveals important information. Testimony given by the local curaca Don Alonso Poma Guala is a case in point, concerning as it does an oral tradition about the Inka held in the memory of a leader

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of local society. He related the following episode, told to him often by his grandfather and father. The Inka king [Topa Inka Yupanqui], . . . camped on a hill in the area, leading ten thousand warriors, and the witness’s greatgrandfather visited the Inka king. . . . He offered mocha in the ritual greeting, and expressed his wish to serve the king. The witness’s great-grandfather was a military leader [cinchecona] in the area, and took ten soldiers with him. . . . He ordered other people in the area . . . to hide themselves in fear that the Inka would do them harm or kill them. . . . [However], they say that the mentioned Topa Inka gave his great-­grandfather some beautiful jackets and capes, and some wine cups called aquilla. With these gifts my great-grandfather returned. The local people, in hiding, were delighted to see these presents given by the Inka to his great-grandfather. . . . My greatgrandfather, for his part, told them there was nothing to fear, and that they should all render homage to the Inka. . . . My great-grandfather [cinchecona] then led all the people back to the Inka. The Inka ordered them to accompany him on his expedition against Quito. They say . . . that the Inka would slaughter those who resisted or did not offer mocha, and seize their lands.4

As is clear from this report, when people first encountered the great army of the Inka, they were fearful and uncertain about the reasons for his arrival. But they soon became enthralled by the valuable gifts they received from the Inka in return for service, and were attracted to the material wealth that clearly came along with submission to Inka authority. Many other records indicate that the other side of the coin was equally understood: that refusing to pay homage to the Inka would mean immediate death and total destruction. Accordingly, the Inka arrived as an antinomy, embodying generous and overflowing riches and the capacity for extreme violence at the same time. The Inkas were both feared and worshiped, and any encounter with them was deeply etched in regional people’s minds.5 After the Spanish conquest, the Spaniards created many written histories of Inka rule. Information from, and the cooperation of, native peoples who were in pursuit of personal, political, and economic profits in colonial times were crucial to the process of writing down and completing an Inka history. As a result, there arose a prototype of an Inka history from time immemorial, featuring twelve kings starting from Manco Capac. This was only one facet of Inka history as it took

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shape in colonial times. We shall now consider quite another: the complex process that saw people who originally had no relationship with the Inka begin to appropriate the Inka for themselves. The Re-Historicized Inka: Appropriating the Inka By the seventeenth century, the Inka had become increasingly disassociated from the historical and geographical context of the imperial capital of Cuzco. In various feasts and religious celebrations held throughout the viceroyalty of Peru, this development can be clearly observed. Indeed, the Inka became increasingly and meaningfully embedded in non-Cuzco contexts. In the second half of the seventeenth century, for instance, in the village of Mangas in Cajatambo in the northern sierra of Peru, an idolatry investigation was held, with the native curaca Alonso Callanpoma as the principal accused. He was said to have engaged in antiChristian idolatrous activities. According to the prosecution’s case, on the occasion of an important religious rite that marked the rethatching of his house’s roof, he had carefully dressed himself in traditional finest cloth (cumbi) and made offerings to an ancestral deity (huaca). Callanpoma vehemently denied these charges and gave the following testimony as evidence. He stated that on that occasion he had not worshiped the huaca: “With two Indians in my company, I simply put on the vestments of an Inka, and then amused myself by playing at war with the two Indians, who themselves had changed into Spanish dress. We did this for our entertainment” (Duviols 2003:609). It is important to note here that a local lord who was not of Inka royal blood and who had no relationship to Inka tradition had put on the costume of an Inka king. In the context of local society, the Inka, rather than being the historical kings who ruled in their capital at Cuzco, had begun to attain a symbolic role, representing the Indians vis-à-vis the Spanish conquerors.6 This seems an excellent example of a re-historicization of the Inka, that is to say, the appropriation and reinterpretation of Inka history by people without any affiliation to Inka heritage. In the seventeenth-century Andes, we observe this kind of rehistoricization emerging in various spheres, as can be captured through a number of examples. In 1601, at the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe de

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Extremadura in Potosí (Bolivia), several theatrical performances were enacted that deserve our attention. Indigenous actors performed The Inka, Lord of the Indians and the Image of the Sun. A noblewoman wearing Spanish dress appeared on the scene, symbolizing “Christianity,” while a snake swallowed the Inka, who was attracted to the lady. The Indian characters seek the help of the Blessed Mother, and in the end an armored knight representing Spanish military power makes his appearance to save the Inka king. The conversion of the Inka king of the heathens was thus symbolized in this revealing manner (Saignes 1990). On December 23, 1659, a festival was held in Lima to celebrate the birth of a crown prince at the court of Philip IV; indigenous people from in and around the city participated. In the plaza, they constructed a mock fortress. The Inka king appeared there, and with two other kings held a mock battle that was won by the Inka, who then occupied the fortress. Afterward, three kings solemnly presented a “key” (presumably to the fortress) to the portrait of the Spanish crown prince propped on a cart (Mugaburu [1640–1697] 1975). Even during the eighteenth century, witnesses continued to report seeing festivals that played on the Inka theme and that were being generated and participated in by indigenous peoples throughout the viceroyalty of Peru. According to the French traveler Amédée Frézier, who witnessed a religious ceremony in honor of the Blessed Mother Mary held in 1711, Indians dressed in “ancient Inka” vestments went on parade in various cities of the viceroyalty. He says that Francisco Pizarro’s execution of Atahualpa was also reenacted as a scene (Cummins 1992). In 1724, Lima celebrated the abdication of Philip V in favor of his son, and the occasion was solemnized in a series of events starting in December. The guilds of Lima performed displays, and for three days—beginning on January 26, in the following year—the Indians also organized processions. Men dressed as the Inka kings—stretching back from Huascar to Manco Capac—walked in procession in the town plaza wearing royal Inka costumes (Romero 1936). What is particularly interesting here is just who performed the parts of the kings. The man who impersonated King Lloque Yupanqui at this moment in time in 1725 was the son of a powerful curaca of Jauja in the central Andean highlands. This man had abandoned his right of succession to the curacazgo (chiefdom), and had come down to

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Lima to work as a merchant, yet even so it was he who won the right to play the role in the feast, above all other competitors (Burga 1988). Amid these examples, a particularly unique one is the pageant held in 1607 at Pausa, a mining town in the jurisdiction of Parinacocha in the province of Huamanga. A ceremony of the designation of the new viceroy was organized under the auspices of royal officials. As part of the festivities, an Inka personage in extravagant vestments came out into the town plaza with more than one hundred Indian attendants, who were also wearing colorful costumes and were armed with spears. The Inka was carried on a litter (palanquin, or andas), accompanied by a large number of women dancing in the time-honored tradition. At that point, another curious personage made his appearance: Don Quixote de La Mancha, the knight of the sad countenance. This gloomy character sat astride an old, worn-out horse recalling the fictional “Rocinante,” and was accompanied by Sancho Panza, riding on a mule and dressed in an amusing way. This all was a most lifelike depiction of the features of the main characters in Miguel de Cervantes’s masterpiece, which had been published only two years earlier in Spain, and his appearance “aroused a strong interest in the crowds” (Rodríguez Marín 1947:586–596; Cummins 2005). The Inka and Don Quixote: the collective imaginary of the people who created this odd combination is enigmatic, and yet one can perceive that here, in this rustic mining town, the history of the Inka was encountering “literature”; this interface suggests the ways in which the image of the Inka was metamorphosing in these settings. As we have seen, the image of the historical Inka, once closely intertwined with Cuzco, became disassociated from the old capital over time, and instead was diffused throughout the Andean world, where it was received by a wide spectrum of people and imbued with new meanings. Also noteworthy is that even in Cuzco, the center of Inka history, actions by non-Inka peoples to encroach on that historicity can be observed. In 1685, for example, a petition blaming a non–Inka Indian named Francisco Uclucana for some scandalous act was submitted by Indian nobles of Inka genealogy living in the eight parishes of Cuzco. According to the testimonies presented by witnesses of the incident, Uclucana had gotten the Inka nobles drunk and attempted to force them to allow him and his son to wear the mascapaycha at the feasts of Santiago and Cor-

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pus Christi and to be elected alférez real and so march with the royal banner (Amado 2002; Amino 2008a). Why did this anger the Inka nobles? Some background will assist in our search for an explanation. Uclucana was not of Inka descent, but rather was from an ethnic group called Cañar. The Cañares were originally from Ecuador, far from Cuzco, but they—like another group, the Chachapoyas (also from a remote area of northern Peru)—had come to reside in the Santa Ana parish of Cuzco (see chapter 17, by Schjellerup). Their complex relationships with the Inka had been maintained since the pre-Hispanic period. The Cañares and the Chachapoyas had both vehemently resisted Inka expansion, but were defeated finally by the armies from Cuzco. Their loyalties remained suspect, and they had been dispersed�������������������������� ������������������������� under compulsion to various areas of the Inka realm as mitimaes. Their antipathy to the Inka was so firmly rooted and tended that when the Spaniards arrived on the scene in the 1530s, the Cañares and the Chachapoyas eagerly joined the newcomers and cooperated to defeat the Inkas. In 1572, following Tupac Amaru  I’s capture at Vilcabamba, he was dragged into Cuzco’s plaza mayor and decapitated by a Cañar executioner. It is thus a curious thing to find Uclucana—a Cañar living in the colonial capital of Cuzco and a potential inheritor of his people’s longstanding antagonism toward the Inkas—seeking the post of alférez real, the very symbol of Inka pride and nobility. Cuzco’s Inka nobles resisted what they perceived to be an infringement on their status and resolutely stated the following: Don Francisco Uclucana nor his son may not bear the royal standard. The reason is that this person is not a scion of the Inka—he is a descendant of the Cañar. The Most Honorable His Excellency Viceroy Toledo has publicly declared that the Cañares shall appear at Corpus Christi dressed as soldiers wearing the insignia of the Cañar. The reason for this being that the Cañares and the Chachapoyas are not from Cuzco, they are outsiders from Quito or Banca [sic: Huancas, from the Jauja region of the upper Mantaro valley in central Peru?]. The Inkas had brought them to this city so that they would serve the kings. And when this kingdom was conquered, they were allied with the conquerors and were thus awarded the insignia of the Cañar. However, their assigned tasks were jailers and executioners, and thus they were exempted from taxes. For the aforementioned reasons, they are permitted neither to

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wear the insignia of the mascapaycha, nor to bear the royal standard. This conduct on their part is a serious affront to us and to all of our descendants. The reason is that the wearing of our insignia by the likes of a simple folk such as this Indian is an insult to our royal blood, and to the honor that His Majesty the King has bestowed upon us in imperial ordinances of our nobility.7

Episodes in which we find different kinds of people attempting to assume the mascapaycha of the Inka are not limited to the case of Uclucana (Dean 1999; Amado 2002; Amino 2008a), as we shall see below, but it is worth lingering over the questions this particular incident raises. What meaning would Uclucana’s attempt have had for the Cañares, whose historically anti-Inka presence might now include the appropriation of the former rulers’ most important symbol? Although many aspects of this complicated incident are still to be understood, it is plausible that non-Inka peoples were full of aspirations toward the magnificent Inka historical tradition and its present incarnation in the alférez real. The grandeur of their tradition had been glorified by such authors as Inka Garcilaso de la Vega, whose works and ideas were becoming known widely at that time. In short, the Inka were historicized and re-historicized, and then appropriated. And this very juncture is where we turn to another aspect of the meanings of the Inka in colonial times, one that seems to find the Inka being severed from history and transformed into a pure and abstract power. The De-Historicization: The Transformation of Inka to Huaca The seemingly sudden emergence of the Inka Empire in the Andean world—with their rapid conquest of such a vast territory, their construction of a far-reaching road network and grandiose buildings, the agricultural terraces (andenes) carved out of steep mountain slopes, all built with skillful stonework in a short time—must have left a powerful impression on their subject peoples, as on others. The term “Inka” was the designation of the kings who ruled this empire; it also signified the ethnic group from which the kings came; and, further, it referred to their empire itself. But especially in colonial times, “Inka” also came to mean something abstract and unconnected with such concrete things. The Peruvian anthropologist Jorge Flores Ochoa

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has pointed out the existence of a belief in a certain spiritual power called enqa among agricultural peoples of the contemporary Andes, and suggests that this enqa is perhaps the Inka (Flores Ochoa 2002). Enqa manifests itself to people in various forms. It is a power that gives order to the world, has the potential to perform marvelous deeds, and brings stability and order to human society. It is the source of all things. The late historian Franklin Pease argued that the concept of enqa contains within itself the essence of Inka royal power (Pease 2007). He claimed that at the core of an empire that could command such reserves of labor and resources— that could move great stones as they pleased, build a new society, and bring order to the world—was the Inka as enqa. People discovered in the Inka a power that might mediate between the worlds of the gods and of men (see chapter 14, by Kaulicke, who has suggested the same view based on the crónica of Betanzos). In fact, it can be observed from the works of several chroniclers that the Inka kings were thought to have possessed divine character. The king was a sacred and untouchable being in the eyes of the common people, and as such was surrounded by many taboos. According to the chronicler Pedro Pizarro, anything that touched the person of the Inka king, his clothes, and the bones left over from his meals was kept in a box and away from everyone, and from time to time these items had to be burned. When the king traveled he rode on a palanquin so that his body would not touch the ground, and the palanquin itself was wrapped in a thick woolen weaving. This untouchable nature of the king was maintained even after death, and, as is well known, the king’s corpse was mummified and treated as something divine (Pizarro [1571] 1986). Thus it was that the divine Inka king was succeeded by the historical Inka king—the latter becoming established as a historical genealogy through the efforts, as we have seen, of the Inka nobles in colonial Cuzco, among others. Yet the Inka became the object of aspiration for still others, too, and these had no relationship to the Inka. For them, the Inka seems to have become the repository and source of a certain kind of dignity. However, if all this is the case, how then did this more fluid latter development—the Inka as a transcendent power—subsequently arise? In the twentieth century, Peruvian anthropologists such as José María Arguedas (1987) learned of the myth of Inkarri (Inka Rey, or Inka king) among indigenous peoples of the Andean highlands. The Inkarri, a primor-

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dial creature, was beheaded by the Spaniards. It is said within this tradition that when his corpse had regrown from his deeply buried head the Inka would unify once more as a single entity, the world would be fundamentally reversed, and a renewed society would arise in which indigenous people would be liberated from oppression and suffering. This way of thinking, which adopts some aspects of Christian eschatology and looks toward the creation of an ideal future, was found to be fermenting among the native people (Tomoeda 1992; Arguedas 1987). It can be said that, unlike the historical Inka, this Inka-Inkarri became disassociated from the context of history and transformed in the imagination of the people. In short, the belief that this ahistoric Inka possessed some sort of transcendental power has been documented in modern Andean society, often under the guise of folklore. During the period between 1572 and these oral traditions of the twentieth century, where was this idea hidden? A key to solving this question may be found in a most unexpected place. In seventeenth-century Lima, we find a number of women tried as hechiceras (witches or sorcerers) before the tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition; thanks to the meticulous records of their inquisitors, we are delivered into these hechiceras’ strange world of spells and incantations (conjuros) (Mannarelli 1985; Amino 2001; Silverblatt 2004).8 In the second half of the sixteenth century, the Inquisition’s tribunals were established in Lima (1570) and Mexico (1571) chiefly to prosecute judaizantes (who were suspected to be practicing Judaism secretly after being baptized as Christians) and Protestants, while also correcting the errors of Catholic Christians who had left the path of proper Catholic morals and ethics. Among those frequently tried for religious aberrations were women accused of using witchcraft and sorcery. Although the term hechicera was usually attached to these women, the “sorcery” they practiced would often be more helpfully categorized as “love magic,” in that it was not excessively evil or pernicious in nature (Mills 2012). In colonial Peruvian society there were many cases of men who had left their wives in the pursuit of new economic or political chances, and cases of many others—men as well as women—who engaged in extramarital relations. Under these circumstances, there were plenty of abandoned women desperate enough to seek any means possible, even the use of magic, to learn the whereabouts of their husbands or to better control

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them. The Inquisition, for its part, was eager to monitor and suppress the activities of women they and others in society suspected were involved in heretical practices conducted in the darkness of the night. It bears emphasizing that a fundamental principle of the Inquisition was to protect orthodoxy and propriety by regulating the beliefs and behaviors of full-fledged members of Catholic Christian society. This principle was deemed to exclude indigenous peoples from prosecution, on the grounds that they were newly converted (neófitos) in the faith. Therefore, those arrested for using conjuros and magic to gain or control the hearts of men were Spaniards or mixed-blood mestiza or mulata women. It was thus non-Indian women who, as we shall learn, were throwing themselves upon Inka’s mercy. While it might be thought that the Inka held power and meaning only for those of native extraction, here in Lima, in the dead of night, we find a divergence from such limits. Moreover, coca leaves were the medium at the heart of their practices. To be sure, the use of coca leaves had become widespread in colonial Peru, and, on the grounds that the substance was connected to religious error (idolatría) and immoral activities, and thus threatened public order, Lima’s authorities promulgated laws banning the transport or possession of coca. The production and circulation of traditional materials such as coca expanded during the Colonial period because of the commercial profits to be made from indigenous laborers, who prized coca leaves, in mining centers and other places, including especially the capital city, to which many Indians came for work. The women who came before the Inquisition were able to obtain coca leaves from smugglers. The images we gather from the testimony they and others provided show them, under cover of nightfall, sitting in small circles, chewing the leaves by candlelight. As the mild stimulant in the leaves began to take effect, they chanted their conjuros, summoning the Inka and quite an assembly of companions. My coca leaves! I beseech you, along with Barrabás, Satanás, and Diablo Cojuelo . . . My coca leaves! My mother! Because of my faith in you, I perform this, by those who planted you, by those who benefit you, by those who worship you, by Inka, by Coya, by the sun and moon shining on you, by the earth in which you were planted, by the water that was sprinkled on you . . .9

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At a glance, one notes that these prayers are offered not only to the several famous diablos (devils), but also to the sun and moon, and the earth and water. Prayers offered to such traditional Andean objects of worship— among a broader set of entities and forces that were huaca—would have been considered idolatrous to the Catholic Church of that time, eager as it was to eradicate them from indigenous hearts and minds. However, even more worthy of mention in these cases involving non-Indian women in Lima is that the Inka and his Coya (legitimate queen) were also being summoned into the space of popular sorcery, attributed with special power. Note also that the Inka and his queen appear in the incantation as a couple. These women who prayed for a stronger relationship between the sexes might have seen the coupling of the Inka and his queen as a powerful bestower of sexual energy. What is the nature of the Inka that appears in these incantations? Further consideration is served by the following conjuros.

When the defendant’s husband was imprisoned, she chewed coca along with the aforementioned sorceresses and repeated incantations. With each one she repeated, “My coca! My princess! My Inka! Because there was nothing you could not defeat, nothing that destroy[s] you, now conquer the heart of the judge so that my husband can escape hanging . . .”12

Notions surrounding the undefeated Inka were incorporated into these incantations, suggesting the possibility that these women from the lower echelons of society had an image of the Inka as enqa existing in the Andean world after the Spanish invasion. However, we can observe the complete absence of such precise words and names as Cuzco, Manco Capac, or Atahualpa. It seems that there is no historical context, and that the emphasis falls fully on the Inka as an “abstract force.” It could even signify that, for these women, the Inka was being transformed into their understanding of huaca, as the following incantation suggests. Mother coca! Dear Mother, beautiful Mother, I do not chew

My Inka! My father! I baptize you with this wine. Because you

you immorally, nor do I chew you to do harm to anyone else.

were not baptized with holy oil (crisma) and baptismal water, I

Rather, I chew you so that you may bestow on me good for-

offer this to you, making this request of you, and of those who

tune. . . . I supplicate you. . . . in the name of that despairing

accompany you, as of the three warriors of good fortune . . .10

spirit who wanders among the huacas, who wanders the hills, who is entirely bored: may that dear man come seeking me,

Inka, to give you the baptism you did not receive, I give you

with his eyes covered and his two hands spread out, offering

this wine. For until you have received this wine, your suffering

me all that he possesses, even his life . . .13

will continue . . .

11

A key for considering these spells’ supposition that the Inka’s suffering originates in not having been baptized can be found in the sermons that priests regularly delivered in native parishes. Examining contemporary sermons, it becomes clear that the priests were preaching that because the Indians’ ancestors and the Inka kings in the pre-Hispanic period had never received baptism and worshipped devils such as the huaca, they were not saved in heaven, but had rather fallen into inferno (Amino 2001). In the seventeenth century, Spanish or mestizo women might have also embraced this image. By offering wine rather than holy oil to the Inka, it seems that the women were taking the preachers’ arguments seriously and thus attempting to free the Inka from suffering, while ���������������������������� harnessing his power to ���� pursue their worldly aims. The idea of the Inka as invincible, with the qualities of enqa, also emerges in conjuros that were recorded and described by the investigation.

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Who are these poor souls, wandering desperate and bored among the huacas and hills? We can try to identify them. Excellent clues in this regard come from the collections of various figurines accumulated by these women, who, like purposeful archaeologists to their own ends, searched the pre-Hispanic and pre-Inkaic huacas—a variety of ruins—scattered around Lima’s environs. Figurines in the shape of a person not only were treated as spiritually powerful indigenous men or women in their rituals, but also came to be called Inka. Consider what was recorded in the following two cases of pieces found in local huacas: The defendant thought that a figurine two fingers in height, and made of bone, was an Inka.14 I gave boiled potatoes and chicha beer to these small figures in the shape of Indians, and as I chewed coca I danced with them, merrily calling these figurines huaca and colla [coya].15

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In other incantations, as we have observed, a connection was always seen between Inka and Coya. Here the connection is between huaca and Coya, while the figurines found in a huaca begin to be called “Inka.” Even though we lack sufficient evidence to be more certain, it is tempting to see a link here between the Inka, the figurines, and huaca. According to the Japanese archaeologist Yuji Seki, looters of huacas in modern Peru (and it is intriguing that even today all manner of archeological sites are called huacas, and treasure-seekers and grave robbers huaqueros) continue to believe that these were built by Inkas and that malicious spirits reside within them (Seki 1996). Although the thread between them is all but invisible, these robbers and the subaltern limeñas of the seventeenth century may be connected by a certain kind of mystical genealogy. In addition, it can be said that the “performed Inka” just discussed became an impetus toward imbuing this popular representation of a “magical Inka” with more concrete ideas and images. Within some details of one divination ritual practiced by these hechiceras—filling a metal basin with wine and leaves of coca, and watching for a figure of Inka to emerge in the light of the burning coals in a brazier—an interesting description arises. The Inkas who appeared to the women in these instances have a remarkably concrete and sharply visualized form. As the records of three among the accused read: In the light of a brazier this defendant saw an Inka appear, [seated] on an embroidered throne . . . surrounded by his retainers.16 On the surface of a basin . . . this defendant saw a tall man appear, in Indian dress, and this defendant said he was Inka, and that his apparition should be taken as a propitious sign.17 [Appearing] between the figurines a finger’s height in size [this accused] saw Inka in Indian dress and with a star on his

Figure 19.2. Colonial quero with the figures of Inka and Coya. Museo Inka Cuzco. (Photo courtesy Yutaka Yoshii)

hechiceras’ imagination. Consider, for instance, a portrayal of the royal couple—an Inka king and coya—in which they appear beneath a rainbow, symbol of fertility, fueling most precisely the invocations of the limeñas discussed above. The Inka of monumental accomplishments in preHispanic times has here been disconnected from history—de-historicized—in the imagination of the people, illustrating how Inka began to be seen as a kind of pure energy. Their imaginations fueled by images of the festive Inka of the calle (street), these women improvised their own unique version of the Inka.

forehead.18

One of the sources contributing to the creation of these visual images must be the people who processed solemnly in the streets of Cuzco and who represented the Inka king and his retainers in Lima and other colonial cities. It is likewise possible that the depictions featured on queros (wooden drinking cups with out-flaring rim) created in colonial times were a source for the

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Conclusion Studies of the image and representation of the Inka during the Colonial period have made significant advances in recent years. In art history in particular, new evidence is providing us with rich sources of knowledge (Dean 1999; Cummins 2001). A revision of the thesis of “Inka

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Renaissance,” proposed many years ago by John Rowe (Rowe 1976), is under way. For example, how should we evaluate the leader of the Great Rebellion of 1780, José Gabriel Condorcanqui Tupac Amaru II, within whom multifaceted ingredients of the Inka converged: as a man with an intense desire to insinuate himself into the historical genealogy of the Inka, or as a man whose efforts to historicize himself as Inka were flatly rejected by the committee of Inka nobles (Cahill 2003), or as a man from whom people in the lower stations of society expected miraculous power and emancipation from colonial oppression? Do the enigmatic and utopian hopes that plebeians pinned upon Tupac Amaru II or Juan Santos Atahualpa for the overthrow of colonial oppression correspond to the powers sought through popular invocations to the Inka and his Coya? Without more evidence, it is premature to answer, and yet such questions and hypotheses remain suggestive. With respect������������������������������������ to ����������������������������������� the proposal of an “Inka Renaissance,” various views have been argued. Dean (1999), for example, points out that within the very identities of the Inka nobles of Cuzco rested a latent potential for an empowerment. Others contend that these Inka nobles were simply the remnants of the Inka who had capitulated to colonialism, as in the argument of Cummins (1992), for example, who uses such terms as “bastardized” mascapaycha. Each argument has its strengths and value, but the crucial point to recognize is that what the Inka created and imagined during colonial times was neither monolithic nor homogenous in character. As I have shown in this chapter, within the changing contexts of colonial society, while representations of the historical Inka kings and their empire might at times have been firmly stated in accepted forms (historicization), in other instances they were re-historicized by people unrelated to Inka culture and its past, while at still other times the “Inka” was cut off—de-historicized—from its historical context and articulated to the world according to the imaginations and evolving needs of subaltern people. Through recognition of this diversity in the significance of the Inka, and through careful analysis of their mutual relationships, research into the meaning of the Inka in the Andean world becomes more fruitful. Research into this topic will never be simple, and for a variety of reasons. For a start, most of the ideas and images of the Inka circulating within the oral traditions and mind frames of plebeians were rarely recorded on paper. Were it not for the coercive means used by the tribunals of the Inquisition to induce confessions, we

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would know little about the nature of their thoughts about the Inka. What is more, many unexamined written records still remain in scattered archives; multifarious traces of the Inka may well come to light in the future. An example of the implications of such new evidence and its interpretation is a recent article by Luis Miguel Glave (2011), which reveals that in eighteenthcentury Lima, the native leaders who negotiated with the Spanish Crown to establish complete legal and human rights for Indians included a number of people who claimed to be descendants of Inka royalty. Moreover, in keeping with the evidence I have presented, it is clear that people seeking a connection with Inka genealogy and an Inka past were not confined to Cuzco or Lima. They could also be found in other areas of the Andes. It would be interesting to learn more about the thoughts of native peoples of the northern Andes, in what is today Ecuador, about the Inka, on account of their deep connection to Atahualpa (Ogburn 2007). If one thing is clear, it is that our best inquiries will be those that seek, through systematic analysis of the archival manuscripts of the Colonial period, to discover all that lies within the kaleidoscopic Inka. Notes

I thank Kenneth Mills for his valuable comments and editing of the manuscript. 1. I have already discussed the three phases involved in Inka historicization in several publications. The present paper is intended to further systematize them. As a point of departure for developing this historical inquiry into the Inka image, I wish to reiterate the importance of the pioneering work of the late Alberto Flores Galindo (esp. Flores Galindo 1986). 2. Nonetheless, it has been pointed out that some of these “royal ordinances”—supposedly transcribed in the eighteenth century from the originals—could have been forged. This would be the other type of “re-historicization” (pers. comm., 2005: Donato Amado). 3. In an academic lecture recently given at the Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Jeremy Mumford (2011) analyzed Toledo’s mental and psychological state when he encountered the Inka Empire, and argued for the possibility that Toledo’s envy of the grandeur of the empire might have affected his policy on reforming indigenous society. 4. “El dicho ynga . . . se puso en un cerro en este repartimyento con la gente que traya que serian diez myll yndios de guerra . . . se fue su visaguelo deste testigo . . . el qual le dio la obediencia y le mochó y que auia lleuado consigo diez yndios soldados por que hera uno de los cincheconas deste valle . . . auia dicho a los yndios . . . que se estuuiesen ascondidos por quel queria ver sy el ynga les hazya algun mal tratamyento o le mataua . . . el

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dicho topa ynga oyo dezir este testigo que auia dado al dicho su visaguelo unas camysetas y mantas galanas y unos vasos en que bebiese que llaman entrellos aquilla e que con esto auia vuelto a los yndios questaban escondidos los quales se auian holgado mucho de ver lo quel dicho ynga auia dado al dicho su visaguelo .  .  . les dixo que no temyesen e que fuesen con él a darle obidencia al ynga . . . e ansy el dicho sinchecona su visaguelo deste testigo lleuo consigo todos sus yndios al dicho ynga y le dixo que fuese con el hasta quito e que oyo dezir . . . que a otros que no le obedescian ny le uenian a mochar les hazia guerra e les sujetaua matando a algunos dellos e tomandoles sus tierras” (Levillier 1940:17–22). 5. A document from Chincha is well known for describing such encounters with the Inka army (Castro and Ortega Morejón [1558] 1974). 6. Naturally, those seeking to repress idolatrous conduct of this sort would not have given any thought to the notion of a historicization or re-historicization of the Inka. Rather, in the opinion of the Catholic religious orthodoxy, the Inkas were treated as supreme symbosl of the “pagans who had died without being baptized, suffering in the inferno”; in a sense we could say that in the realm of Christianization of Andean people, another form of historicization was taking place (Amino 2001). 7. ARC, Libro de Betancur I, fols. 70v–73v: “Dho don francisco vclucana siendo asi que el susodho no tiene dro. para sacar el dho estandarte porque no es desendiente el ni su hijo de los yngas sino que es desendiente de los cañares que para el dia de corpus salen con sus insignias de cañares hechos soldados porque asi lo ordeno el excelentisimo señor don francisco de toledo virrey que fue de estos rnos. por sus ordenanzas porque los dhos cañares y chachapoyas no son naturales de dha ciudad sino que son adbenedisos de los pueblos de quito y banca [huanca?] que los yngas les lleuaron a dha ciudad para que les siruiesen porque al tpo. que se conquisto este rno. se hallaron con los conquistadores y les dieron la ynsignia de cañares y no pagan tasa sino que acuden a la carzel a ser porteros y verdugos y por esta rason no se pueden poner la ynsignia de mascapaycha ni sacar el estandarte real que es en gran daño de nosotros y de todos estos nros. descendientes porque no se pone vn yndio particular la dha ynsignia es menosprecio a nra. sangre real y las honrras que nos hizo el rey nro. señor en sus cedulas reales por nra. nobleza.” 8. These invocations are recorded in the “Relaciones de Causas de Fe” section of the Inquisición de Lima papers in the Archivo Histórico Nacional (AHN), in Madrid, Spain. Although these “relaciones” are case summaries, the inquisitors and their notaries meticulously recorded each hechicera’s invocation rather than gliding over their peculiarities and the differences between them. For this reason, we may see the invocations as nothing less than actual expressions employed by the women, making them of undeniable historical value as a more or less direct crystallization of plebeian feelings and emotions. Conjuros, meant to be whispered and then to disappear into the night, fell into the grasp of the inquisitors, and thus have ended up as precious traces for historical investigation. 9. In the documentation of this “Información,” Inka is recorded variously as “inga,” “linga,” and “hinga.” To facilitate the modern reader, I render all of them as “Inka.” “Conjurote coca

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mia con barrabas con satanas con el diablo cojuelo . . . ,” “. . . coca mia madre mia es de hacer esto que te pido por la fe que tengo contigo por quien te sembro por quien te beneficio . . . por el inga, por la colla, por el sol y la luna que te alumbraron por la tierra en que estuuiste sembrada por el agua con que fuiste regada” (AHN, Inquisición, Libro 1031, año 1655, fols. 374v–376v). 10. “Hinga mio padre mio io te baptizo con este vino por la christima i por el agua que te falto en el baptismo io te brindo y te mingo a ti a todos tus sequaces a los tres maiores de la suerte” (AHN, Inquisición, Libro 1031, año 1655, fol. 383r). 11. “Linga como a ti te falla el baptismo asi este vino que te echo te sirba de baptismo para que atormentandote en las penas en que estais hasta que no tengas aquello auido” (AHN, Inquisición, Libro 1031, año 1655, fol. 390r–390v). 12. “Y quando estuvo presso el marido de esta rea masco con las dhas hechiçeras la coca con vn conjuro que ocultaba pero decia que a cada [mas]cado dixessen coca mia ñusta mia ynga mio como para ti nada vbo imposible que no [vencis] assi me vences el coraçon de los juezes para que no ahorquen a mi marido” (AHN, Inquisición, Libro 1031, año 1665, fol. 529v). 13. “Mama coca mama querida linda mia yo no te como por vicio ni por hacer mal a naide sino porque me des suerte y dicha . . . te pido que . . . por aquella alma mas aburrida y mas desespe­ rada que anda de guaca en guaca y de cerro en cerro asi venga en busca mia con los ojos vendados y las manos abiertas dandome cuanto tubiere y muriendose por mi . . . “ (AHN, Inquisición, Libro 1032, año 1690, fol. 380v). 14. “Un idolillo de guesso de dos dedos de alto a el qual tenia esta rea por el inga i .  .  . lo auia hallado en vna guaca” (AHN, Inquisición, Libro 1031, año 1655, fol. 385r). 15. “A los quales daba papas cossidas y chicha y que quanto mascaba la coca cachuaba con ellos (es termino con que significan los indios el vaylar y dansar) llamándolos ‘guaca y collas’ con mucha alegria” (AHN, Inquisición, Libro 1032, ño 1690, fol. 426r). 16. “Con la luz de brasero veria entrar a linga en vna silla bordada . . . çercado de sus criados” (AHN, Inquisición, año 1693, fol. 418r). 17. “En el lebrillo . . . uido esta testº a un hombre de grande estatura vestido en traje de indios y esta rea dixo que aquel era el inga i que auia de ser uenturosa por auersele apareçido” (AHN, Inquisición, Libro 1031, año 1655, fol. 390v). 18. “En unas figurillas como de un dedo uio a el inga en uestido de indio i con una estrella en la frente” (AHN, Inquisición, Libro 1031, año 1655, fol. 375r). Bibliography Abbreviations

AHN = Archivo Histórico Nacional de España ARC = Archivo Regional del Cusco, Perú Amado Gonzales, Donato

2002 “El alférez real de los Incas: Resistencia, cambios y

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continuidad de la identidad indígena.” In Incas e indios cristianos: Élites indígenas e identidades cristianas en los Andes coloniales, ed. Jean-Jaques Decoste, 221–249. Cuzco: CERA “Bartolomé de las Casas.”

indígena en Lima (1722–1732).” Diálogo Andino 37:5–23. Hemming, John

1970

The Conquest of the Incas. New York: Harcourt Brace.

Amino, Tetsuya

Levillier, Roberto

2001

1940

“El ‘inga’ y las mujeres limeñas: Un estudio sobre la formación del nuevo simbolismo del Inka a través de los procesos inquisitoriales del siglo XVII.” In Actas del 3er. Congreso Internacional Mediadores Culturales, México, D.F., ed. Clara García Ayluardo and Manuel Ramos Medina, 101–121. Mexico. 2003 “Reconsideration of the Formation of Inka Images in Colonial Peru.” Odysseus 7:2958. [in Japanese] 2008a “Desire for Inka: The Historical Relationship between Colonialism and Representation.” In Empire of the Other, ed. Hidefuji Someda and Yuji Seki, 249–273. Kyoto: Sekai-Shisosha. [in Japanese] 2008b Inka and Spain: Interaction of Empires. Tokyo: Kodansha. [in Japanese] Arguedas, José María

1987

Formación de una cultura nacional indoamericana. Mexico: Siglo Veintiuno.

Burga, Manuel

1988

Nacimiento de una utopía: Muerte y resurrección de los Incas. Lima: Instituto de Apoyo Agrario.

Mannarelli, María Emma

1985

“Relación y declaración del modo que este valle de Chincha y sus comarcanos se governavan antes que se oviese Ingas y despues que los vuo hasta que los Cristianos entraron en esta tierra.” Historia y Cultura 8:91–104.

Cummins, Thomas

1992

2005

“We Are the Other: Peruvian Portraits of Colonial kurakakuna.” In Transatlantic Encounters, ed. Kenneth Andrien and Rolena Adorno, 188–209. Berkeley: University of California Press. “La fábula y la historia.” In Los incas, reyes del Perú, ed. Thomas Cummins, 1–41. Lima: Banco de Crédito.

Dean, Carolyn S.

1999

Inka Bodies and the Body of Christ: Corpus Christi in Colonial Cuzco, Peru. Durham: Duke University Press.

Duviols, Pierre

2003

Procesos y visitas de idolatrías: Cajatambo, siglo XVII. Lima: PUCP, IFEA.

Flores Galindo, Alberto

1986

Buscando un Inca: Identidad y utopía en los Andes. Lima: Horizonte.

“Inquisición y mujeres: Las hechiceras en el Perú durante el siglo XVII.” Revista Andina 3:141–156.

Mills, Kenneth

2012

Idolatry and Its Enemies: Colonial Andean Religion and Extirpation, 1640–1750. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Mugaburu, Joseph de

1975

Chronicle of Colonial Lima. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press.

Mumford, Jeremy R.

2011

“Las reducciones toledanas y la idea de tiranía.” Public lecture given at the Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Lima, Aug. 25.

Nowack, Kerstin, and Catherine Julien

1999

Castro, Cristóbal de, and Diego de Ortega Morejón

1974

Don Francisco de Toledo, supremo organizador del Perú: Su vida, su obra (1515–1582). Buenos Aires: Espasa-Calpe.

“La campaña de Toledo contra los señores naturales andinos: El destierro de los Incas de Vilcabamba y Cuzco.” Historia y Cultura 23:15–81.

Ogburn, Dennis E.

2007

“Incas Past and Present: Archaeology and the Indigenous Saraguros of Southern Ecuador.” Stanford Journal of Archaeology 5:134–163.

Okada, Hirosige

2008 “Creation and Possession of Inka Representations: The Politics of Images in the Colonial Andes.” In Empire of the Other, ed. Someda Hidefuji and Seki Yuji, 274–300. Kyoto: Sekai-Shisosya. [in Japanese] Pease, Franklin

2007 Los Incas. Lima: PUCP. Pizarro, Pedro

(1571) 1986  Relación del descubrimiento y conquista del Perú. Lima: PUCP. Rodríguez Marín, Francisco

1947

“Don Quijote en América en 1607.” In Estudios cervantinos, ed. Francisco Rodríguez Marín, 573–596. Madrid: Atlas.

Romero, Carlos

1936

“Una supervivencia del Inkanato durante la colonia.” Revista Histórica 10:76–94.

Flores Ochoa, Jorge

Rowe, John H.

2002 “El Inka histórico es el Enqa contemporáneo.” In El Hombre y los Andes. Homenaje a Franklin Pease G. Y., ed. Javier Flores Espinoza and Rafael Varón Gabai, 611–617. Lima: PUCP.

1976

Garrett, David T.

2005

Shadows of Empire: The Indian Nobility of Cusco, 1750–1825. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

“El movimiento nacional inca del siglo XVIII.” In Túpac Amaru II: 1780, ed. Alberto Flores Galindo, 11–53. Lima: Retablo de Papel.

Saignes, Thierry

1990

“¿Es posible una historia ‘chola’ del Perú?: Acerca de Nacimiento de una utopía de Manuel Burga.” Allpanchis 35/36:637–657.

Glave, Luis Miguel

Seki, Yuji

2011

1996

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“Memoria y memoriales: La formación de una liga

“The Logic of huaqueros and the Logic of Archae-

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ologists: Problems Concerning the Conservation of Archaeological Sites in Northern Peru.” Academic Journal of Tenri University 183:197–214. [in Japanese] Silverblatt, Irene

2004 Modern Inquisitions: Peru and the Colonial Origins of the Civilized World. Durham: Duke University Press. Someda, Hidefuji

1999

El imperio de los incas: Imagen del Tahuantinsuyu creada por los cronistas. Lima: PUCP.

Shimada_5545_19-pp3.indd 361

Tomoeda, Hiroyasu

1992 “El nueva corónica y buen gobierno as Text.” In Andean Chronicler Huaman Poma: Realities Depicted by an Indian, ed. Hidefuji Someda and Hiroyasu Tomoeda, 229–271. Tokyo: Heibonsha. [in Japanese] Urton, Gary

1990 The History of a Myth: Pacariqtambo and the Origin of the Inkas. Austin: University of Texas Press.

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Authors’ Biographies

TETSUYA AMINO is professor of history at the

University of Tokyo. He specializes in colonial social history of the Andes and, through archival study of historical documents, strives to elucidate the historical processes of the major transformation that the native Andean world experienced. He also continues documentary analysis of the sixteenth- and seventeenthcentury “Inquisition” in the Andes. His publications include the 2008 Japanese book Inka and Spain: Inter­ action of Empires. BRIAN S. BAUER is professor of anthropology at the University of Illinois at Chicago and adjutant curator at the Field Museum. His scholarly interests are focused on the development of complex societies in the Americas, indigenous forms of social organization, and the European–American contact period. Supported by research grants from various institutions, he has published more than a dozen books and monographs on Andean prehistory and is particularly well known for his work on the Inkas. TAMARA L. BRAY is professor of anthropology at Wayne State University. She specializes in the study of pre-Columbian societies of the northern Andes and the Inka Empire. Her research focuses on strategies of ancient imperialism through analyses of craft production, foodways, and iconography. She is the author of several books and edited volumes, including The Visual Language of the Inca (2008, edited with Paola González), The Archaeology and Politics of Food and Feasting in Early States and Empires (2003), and Los efectos del imperio incaico en la frontera septentrional (2003). RODOLFO CERRÓN-PALOMINO is professor

in the Division of Humanities, Pontifical Catholic Uni-

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versity of Peru in Lima. His research covers synchronic and diachronic studies of Andean languages as well as their contact with and displacement by Spanish. His key publications include Lingüística quechua (1987), La lengua de Naymlap (1995), Lingüística aimara (2000), El chipaya o la lengua de los hombres del agua (2006), Quechumara (2008), Voces del Ande (2008), and Las lenguas de los incas (2013). Archaeologist GABRIELA CERVANTES received her Bachelor's and licenciatura (professional) degrees from the Pontifical Catholic University of Peru in 2005 and 2010, respectively. She has participated in many archaeological projects in various regions of Peru and has research interests in domestic space, land use and management, and political ecology. Currently she is a doctoral candidate at the University of Pittsburgh. R. ALAN COVEY is associate professor of anthropology at the University of Texas at Austin, with research interests in the archaeology of early imperial societies, particularly the Inkas. He has directed regional surveys and excavations in the Cuzco area of highland Peru, as well as research in several Inka provincial regions. He is currently associate director of the Huánuco Pampa Archaeological Project, directing the analysis and publication of Craig Morris’s excavations at the Inka provincial center. He has authored or edited four books, including How the Incas Built Their Heartland (2006) and The Huánuco Pampa Archaeological Project, volume 1: The Central Plaza and Palace Complex (2011, coauthored with Craig Morris and Pat Stein). THOMAS B.  F. CUMMINS is Dumbarton Oaks

Professor of Pre-Columbian and Colonial Art at Harvard University. His research interests include early

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Ecuadorian ceramics, Inka art, and Colonial art. He is the author or editor of seven books, including Beyond the Lettered City: Visual and Alphabetic Literacy in the New World (co-authored with Joanne Rappaport, 2012) and The Getty Murúa: Essays on the Making of Martín de Murúa’s “Historia general del Pirú,” J. Paul Getty Museum Ms. XIII 16 (2008). TERENCE N. D’ALTROY is Loubat Professor of

American Archaeology in the Department of Anthropology and Director of the Center for Archaeology at Columbia University in New York. His research interests lie in the study of empires, especially the Inkas of Andean South America, with a topical focus on both the organizational and the intellectual foundations of imperial rule. He has conducted fieldwork in Peru (sites such as Hatun Xauxa and Hatunmarca), Argentina (Potrero de Payogasta), the United States, and Mexico. He has authored or (co-)edited several books, including The Incas (2002), Empire and Domestic Economy (2002), Empires (2002), and Provincial Power in the Inka Empire (1992).

JOHN C. EARLS is professor of anthropology at the

Pontifical Catholic University of Peru. In anthropology, he has carried out ethnographic and ethnohistorical research on kinship, social organization, cosmology and agricultural production, and topoclimatology in the high Andes. His work is centered on understanding the organizational dynamics of pre-Hispanic and contemporary Andean societies in central and southern Peru and Bolivia. He has researched the organizational principles involved in the articulation and coordination of agricultural activities at the Inka site of Moray near Cuzco. He has published a number of books, including Planificación agrícola andina: Bases de un manejo ciber­ nético de sistemas de andenes (1989), Topoclimatología de alta montaña (2006), and Introducción a la teoría de sistemas complejos (2007). Archaeologist NATALIA GUZMÁN REQUENA received her licenciatura degree from the Pontifical Catholic University of Peru (2009). Currently she is the resident archaeologist at Huaca Lercanlech within the Pómac Forest National Historical Reserve (Sicán National Museum project). Since 1998, she has participated in various archaeological projects on the north coast of Peru as well as in a survey conducted in the Pómac Forest. Her principal research interests are the

Shimada_5545_20-pp3.indd 364

Inka road system, irrigation technology, and the Late Intermediate Period of the Lambayeque region. FRANCES M. HAYASHIDA is associate professor of anthropology at the University of New Mexico at Albuquerque. Her field research has focused on the political ecology and economy of late pre-Hispanic states and empires in the Andes. She directed the Ynalche Project, which examines late pre-Hispanic farming and farmers on the north coast of Peru, and currently codirects a study of transformations in land use and society under Inka rule in the high-altitude Atacama Desert in Chile. Her publications have examined agriculture and water management in the Andes, Inka provincial pottery production, the ethnoarchaeology of maize beer brewing, and the application of archaeology to environmental conservation. PETER KAULICKE is professor of archaeology at the Pontifical Catholic University of Peru. His research foci include Archaic and Formative chronology, funerary contexts and analysis, art and religion, the origins of social complexity, and the ethnohistory–archaeology relationship, among others. He has excavated at many sites in Peru, including Uchkunachay, Pandanche, Vicús, and Coyungo. He has been director of the Bole­ tin de Arqueología PUCP since 1996 and is author and/ or editor of several books, including Muerte y memoria en el Perú antiguo (2000) and Cronologías del Formativo (2010). STELLA NAIR is associate professor of history of art

at the University of California, Los Angeles, and the Interdepartmental Program in Archaeology at UCLA, with research interests in architectural design and construction in the Andes. She has worked at Monte Albán in Mexico; Chavín de Huántar, Chinchero, and Cuzco in Peru; and Tiahuanaco in Bolivia. She has published numerous articles on Inka and Tiwanaku art and architecture, most recently with Jean-Pierre Protzen, The Stones of Tiahuanaco: A Study of Architecture and Con­ struction (2013). She has recently completed a monograph on an Inca royal estate north of Cuzco, At Home with the Sapa Inca: Architecture, Space, and Legacy at Chinchero (University of Texas Press, forthcoming).

SUSAN A. NILES is professor of anthropology at

Lafayette College in Easton, Pennsylvania. She has researched Inka and early Colonial culture, with a focus

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AUTHORS’ BIOGRAPHIES  365

on elite architecture near Cuzco and in the Urubamba Valley. She has published books on two royal estates: Callachaca: Style and Status in an Inca Community (1987) and The Shape of Inca History: Narrative and Architecture in an Andean Empire (1999). Her current project considers how Inka architecture is conceived by archaeologists. MARTTI PÄRSSINEN is professor of Latin American studies at the University of Helsinki, and former director of the Ibero-American Institute of Finland in Madrid. Specializing in Andean and Amazonian history and archaeology, he has conducted archival research in Spain, Peru, and Bolivia and directed various archaeological projects, especially in Bolivia and Brazil. He is an author or co-author of various books, including Tawan­ tinsuyu: The Inca State and Its Political Organization (1992), Caquiaviri y la provincia Pacasa (2005), and Pariti: The Ceremonial Tiwanaku Pottery of an Island in Lake Titicaca (2011). ELENA PHIPPS is president of the Textile Society

of America. She was senior museum conservator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art (1977 to 2010) and lecturer, UCLA World Arts and Culture Program. Her interests focus on the history of textile materials and techniques in cultural perspectives. Her 2004 exhibition and catalogue, The Colonial Andes: Tapestries and Silverwork, 1430–1830, received the Alfred Barr Jr. Award, College Art Association, and the Mitchell Prize, in 2006. Recent publications include Cochineal Red: The Art History of a Color (2010), Looking at Textiles: A Technical Terminology (2011), and The Peruvian FourSelvaged Cloth: Ancient Threads, New Directions (2014). JEAN-PIERRE PROTZEN is professor emeritus, department of architecture at the University of California at Berkeley. His research interests center on the architecture and construction of ancient peoples, in particular of the Inkas and the Tiwanaku in the Andes. He has worked in the Cuzco area, at Ollantaytambo, Tiahuanaco, Chavín de Huántar, and Tambo Colorado. He has written numerous articles, authored Inca Archi­ tecture and Construction at Ollantaytambo (1993), and co-authored The Stones of Tiahuanaco: A Study of Archi­ tecture and Construction (in press) with Stella Nair. FRANK SALOMON is John V. Murra Professor Emeritus of Anthropology at the University of Wiscon-

Shimada_5545_20-pp3.indd 365

sin, Madison, and adjunct professor at the University of Iowa. His current research centers upon the templekhipu complex of the central highland community of Rapaz, Peru. His books include The Lettered Mountain: A Peruvian Village’s Way With Writing (with Mercedes Niño-Murcia, 2011), The Cord Keepers: Khipus and Cul­ tural Life in a Peruvian Village (2004), and The Huaro­ chirí Manuscript (1991). His edited works include the South American volumes of the Cambridge History of the Native Peoples of the Americas (1999). He is a past president of the American Society for Ethnohistory. INGE SCHJELLERUP is senior researcher at the

National Museum of Denmark, Copenhagen. Her main research interests are pre-Hispanic environmental changes, settlement patterns, and agriculture on the eastern slopes of the Andes, northeastern Peru. She has directed several ethnological projects and excavated many Chachapoyas and Inka sites. She has authored and edited various books, including Incas and Spaniards in the Conquest of the Chachapoyas (1997), The Forgotten Valleys: Past and Present in the Utilization of Resources in the Ceja de Selva (2003), and La Ceja de Montaña: Un paisaje que va desapareciendo—Estudios interdisciplina­ rios en el noreste del Peru (2009).

IZUMI SHIMADA is professor of anthropology and distinguished scholar at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale, with research interests in the archaeology of complex pre-Hispanic cultures in the Andes, the technology and organization of craft production, mortuary analysis, and ecology–culture interaction, among other topics. He has excavated at many sites, including Pampa Grande, Pachacamac, and Sicán, and continues to direct two archaeological projects in Peru. He has authored or edited thirteen books, including Pampa Grande and the Mochica Culture (1994), Andean Ceram­ ics: Technology, Organization, and Approaches (1998), and Craft Production in Complex Societies (2007). He is the founder of the National Sicán Museum in Ferreñafe, Peru. KEN-ICHI SHINODA is chief of the department of anthropology, National Museum of Nature and Science, Tokyo. He specializes in biomolecular anthropology and focuses his research efforts on tracing human origins, dispersal, and group formation through ancient (mitochondrial) DNA analysis. In collaboration with I. Shimada, he also strives to illuminate the genetic his-

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tory and characteristics of indigenous populations of the Andes, including the Inka. He has numerous publications in English, Japanese, and Spanish, including the 2007 Japanese book The Ancestors Who Became the Japanese. DOUGLAS K. SMIT is presently a doctoral student

at the University of Illinois at Chicago. His research interests include the transition between European contact and colonialism in the Andes, the formation of the colonial political economy, and archaeological applications of GIS and geochemistry. He has conducted field research at Late Horizon and Contact Period sites in both Ecuador and Peru.

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GARY URTON is Dumbarton Oaks Professor of Pre-Columbian Studies in the department of anthropology, Harvard University. His research focuses on pre-Columbian and early colonial intellectual history in the Andes, drawing on archaeology, ethnohistory, and ethnology. He is the author of numerous articles and books on Andean/Quechua cultures and Inka civilization, including At the Crossroads of the Earth and the Sky (1981), The History of a Myth (1990), The Social Life of Numbers (1997), Inca Myths (1999), and Signs of the Inka Khipu (2003). He is founder/director of the Khipu Database Project at Harvard.

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Index

Note: Italic page numbers refer to figures and tables. Abancay: farms established in, 107, 108; resettlement of colonists to, 105 Abercrombie, Tom, 183 Achanchi site, 74 Acosta, José de, 29, 193n19, 201 administrative centers: building of, 215, 227–228, 230; Cuzco as, 151–152, 158, 162, 172, 200, 205, 238, 248; and economic policies, 112–113; and khipus, 158; Pachacamac as, 158, 173; Pikillacta as, 49, 74, 75; and provincial administration, 91, 91, 93, 113, 288, 290, 294, 295, 311, 313–314, 320, 334–335; and religious sites, 92 administrative strategies: and accounting, 5, 152, 153–158, 162; archaeological data on, 83; decimal administration, 151, 152–153, 153; effect of Spanish conquest on, 149–150; establishment of, 5, 9, 77, 85; flexibility of, 89, 151; hierarchy of, 83–84, 151–152, 153, 159, 159, 162; indigenous testimony about, 83; and kinship, 83, 85, 267, 280, 294; and labor mobilization, 102; and local context, 151, 158–161, 159, 288, 295, 299, 309; and storehouses, 221; and textiles, 197, 200; and training, 158. See also khipus; provincial administration adobe, 224, 225, 294, 300n4 agricultural production: in Cochabamba, 107, 108, 299; in Cuzco region, 76; and economic policies, 97, 101; and intensification of productive resources, 108; and labor tax, 102; and mitimaes, 89; and provincial administration, 311, 318; as resource, 99; for rituals, 242; and royal estates, 235, 242; state farms and storage facilities, 109; and textiles, 200; and water management, 135–136; and yanacunas, 103 agricultural technology: and calendars, 122–123, 137–138, 143; and ceque system, 138–143; functional and symbolic dimensions of, 5, 121; and irrigation, 99–100, 115, 121, 125, 135– 136, 139, 143, 215, 217; and macroclimate, 132, 133, 135, 137, 144nn3–4; organizational complexity and innovation in, 11, 139; and risk-dispersion strategies, 11, 121, 132, 137, 144n5; and soil temperature, 133–135, 134, 136, 144nn8–9. See also agricultural terraces agricultural terraces: and agricultural land, 75, 76, 78, 108, 217; and calendars, 133, 138; and canals, 125; in Chachapoya region, 307, 316–317, 318; construction of, 216–217, 226, 229,

230; drop structures, 125, 125, 135, 136, 193n21; figures of llamas on, 167, 167, 168, 169, 182; function of, 108, 110, 115, 121, 131–132; geometry of, 126, 133, 138; and intercalation of astronomical and seasonal calendars, 123, 127, 131, 137; labor investment in, 108, 110, 125; and life zones, 131; of Machu Picchu, 108, 186, 243, 243; and microclimatic variation, 11, 121, 123, 126, 132–135, 136, 137, 138, 144nn6–7; of Moray site, 123, 123, 124, 125–126, 125, 127, 128, 129, 131–136, 143; of Ollantaytambo, 108, 110, 242; of Pisac site, 108, 230, 255, 255; purpose of, 125, 131; and risk reduction, 121, 132; of royal estates, 110, 217, 233, 235, 237, 238; and soil temperature, 133–135, 134, 136, 144nn8–9; symbolic aspect of, 217; of Tipón, 186, 186 Albornóz, Cristóbal de, 183, 251 Alcaya, Diego Felipe de, 268, 269–270 alférez real, 349, 353, 354 Almagro, Diego, 265 alpacas, 97, 100, 107, 151, 197, 200, 207, 249 Alvarado (Spanish captain), 309 Alvarez, Bartolomé, 31 Amaro Topa, 268 Amarukancha (palace of Huascar), 220 Amazon, forest-dwelling peoples of, 28 Amino, Tetsuya, 16–17 AMS (accelerator mass spectrometry) dating, 59, 59 anacus (dresses), 202, 205, 205 Ancash people, 63 ancestor veneration: Betanzos’s accounts of, 6, 14; and bodies of deceased Inkas, 102; in Inka culture, 5; interpretation of, 260; and landscape modification, 110; and mummies, 14; and Pisac site, 259; and preparation for eternity, 250–251; and witnesses to past events, 182. See also chullpas (burial towers) Andahuaylas region: Chanka settlement patterns in, 72, 73; Late Intermediate Period site with circular buildings, 73; pre-Inka social conditions of, 72. See also Chancas (Chankas) Andean causality, 122 Andean land rights, 211 Andean way, and economic policies, 11, 113 andenes. See agricultural terraces Andes: central Andes, 70–72, 70, 74; climate of, 14n3, 99–101,

368  THE INKA EMPIRE

121, 132; cross-section of, 100; ecological diversity of, 9, 11, 121, 131, 135, 215; ecological zones of, 100, 216; equatorial Andes, 325, 338–339 Andrien, Kenneth J., 24 animal husbandry, and textiles, 200 Antisuyu: boundaries of, 268; Inka conquest of, 307; and provincial administration, 15; as sector of Inka Empire, 151, 172, 265, 266 aposentos (imperial lodgings), 333–336 Apu Moray, 126 Apu Saqra, 126 Apu Wañuymarca, 126 aqllakuna (segregated women), 107, 113 aqllas (cloistered groups): and building types, 220–221; and chicha, 201, 205, 222; and provincial administration, 228, 290, 295, 296, 300, 336; and textiles, 201, 205, 206 aqllawasi (cloister for weaving, chicha preparation, and other activities), 87, 87, 91, 91, 220–221, 222, 336 aquillas, pairs of, 177, 177, 178, 180, 189 Araujo, Hilda, 143 archaeology: archaeoastronomical research, 139; and impact of Inka rule, 83; and Inka origins, 55, 57, 67, 68, 69; limitations of, 1, 68; and linguistics, 39, 40, 51; in local communities, 92; multidisciplinary approaches to, 4; and mytho-historical accounts, 50; on north coast, 287, 288–291, 293–296; and occupations invasions, 271; and provincial administration, 83, 84; and royal estates, 237; of tampus, 89, 90 archaeology-ethnohistory relationship: and Colonial period, 16, 35; distinctive natures of data, 7, 68, 77, 271, 277, 279, 280– 281; and integration, 1; and mutual benefit, 6; reliability of, 6; synergistic insights of, 7, 287, 307, 320 architecture: and administrative centers, 91, 91; and battered walls, 218; and building functions, 221–222; and building types, 218, 220–222, 220, 294, 314, 315; of Chachapoya region, 309–310, 314, 315, 316, 319; chronology of, 271; of Cochabamba, 311, 312; of Colla, 72; and color use, 222–223, 223; and construction program, 215; and construction technology, 223–227; contextual analysis of, 12; curved walls of, 183, 186; and double-jamb doorways, 169, 170, 183, 185; and entranceways, 218, 253; and estate construction, 14; of IncaCaranqui, 338; in Inka culture, 5, 78; and landscape modifications, 13, 228–229; of Late Intermediate Period, 77; local variation coexisting with imposed unity, 13, 215, 216, 218, 225, 228, 230, 289, 294; and managed diversity, 13; on north coast of Peru, 288, 293, 294; quenco wasi, 221, 222; and Quito area, 335; recurrent features of, 218; recursive form in, 170, 175, 183, 185, 192n4; and ritual spaces, 185; roofs, 225–226; of royal estates, 110; of storehouses, 221; studies of, 191; suntur wasi, 221, 221; symbolic meaning in, 222–223; and Tiwanaku, 185–186; and trapezoidal form, 168, 169–170, 169, 175, 192n4, 218; type 1 buildings, 218, 219; type 2 buildings, 218, 219, 220; type 3 buildings, 218, 220, 220; and uniform high imperial style, 15, 169, 170, 191, 216, 217, 272, 276–277, 280; as uniting physical and the ideal, 174–175; visual language of, 13; wall construction, 223–224; of weavers’ housing and looms, 206; written records of, 220, 222, 225, 228 Arequipa, 265

Arguedas, José María, 354–355 aríbalos, 297, 299, 300, 334 Arkush, Elizabeth N., 70, 71 Arriaga, Pablo Joseph de, 193n23 art: and aesthetic principles, 186–188; and camay, 181, 182, 189–190; contextual analysis of, 12, 13; design composition in, 167; dynamic composition in, 165; figural forms in, 165, 167, 167, 168, 169, 170; geometric forms in, 165, 169–170, 173, 175, 178, 180–182, 183; human figure in, 165, 167, 167; imperial art style, 170, 191, 192n4; interdisciplinary approach to, 191; local artistic expressions distinguished from, 12, 172; local variation coexisting with imposed unity, 15; and mythic/historic past, 183, 185–186; production and distribution of, 172; and quilca, 167, 191, 192n2; recursive form in, 170, 175, 183, 192n4; and regional styles, 170; and religious, political, historical, and social concepts, 165, 172, 173, 177, 183, 191; ritual embodiment of Inka aesthetic, 173–175, 177–178, 180–182, 185; roles and meanings of, 5; visual uniformity of, 12, 13, 15, 169, 170, 172, 178, 182, 191. See also architecture; ceramics; craft production; metal art; textiles astronomy: and calendars, 122–123, 126, 127, 131, 137, 139, 141, 252; and landscape modifications, 314; Moray site as astronomical observatory, 11, 121, 126–131, 138, 143; and provincial administration, 316; and symbolic representation, 121 Atahualpa (Inka ruler): capture of, 24, 325, 338, 347, 352; and Cochabamba, 311; conquests of, 266, 325; death of, 125, 337; and historicization of Inkas, 358; and Francisco Pizarro, 24, 207, 338, 347, 352; ransom collected for, 170; royal family of, 6, 177, 205, 220, 240, 334, 338 Atahualpa, Juan Santos, 358 Atienza, Lope de, 29 Atuén site, 318 Augustinians, 28, 29, 32 autotelicity, 185 Ávila, Francisco de, 34 awaska (coarser cloth), 201, 206 awkapacha (pre-Inka stage), 84–85 Ayacucho region: and Quechua, 49. See also Wari (Huari) civilization Ayarmaca people, 125, 126 Ayar people, 47 ayllus: curacas as heads of lineages making up, 158–159, 192n14; as essential socioeconomic unit, 101–102, 178, 192n14; and khipus, 159, 160, 161; land owned by, 233–234; and sacrificial offerings, 152; and textiles, 199 Aymara language: dialects of, 41, 42; dictionary of, 208; evolution of, 40, 41–42; geographical area covered by, 43–44, 43; and historical correlations, 44, 45–46, 47, 48; and Inka origins, 68; as language of Inkas, 7, 32, 46, 50, 51; as Wari language, 44, 49 Aymara people: chiefdoms of, 280; historicity of, 47; migrations of, 49; and mitochondrial DNA analysis, 8; textiles of, 199 Aymuray (month), 142–143 Aztec art, 192n6 Aztecs, 191, 271 Baca, J. Fernández, 192n1

INDEX  369

Bandera, Damián de la, 27 Barrionuevo, Alfonsina, 127 Bauer, Brian, 6, 8, 9, 48, 70, 74 Benalcázar, Sebastián de, 338 Beringia, 56, 57 Bertonio, Ludovico, 43, 47, 208 Betanzos, Juan Díez de: on Atahualpa, 337; and conceptions of life, death, and cosmological beliefs, 14, 249; on Cuzco, 248; on endogamy of Inka rulers, 64; on imperial infrastructure, 86; on Inka elite, 87; on Lake Titicaca polities, 71; on landscape, 253; marriage of, 32, 248, 337, 347; on Paucar Usno, 268; on provincial governors, 142; Quechua texts recorded by, 44, 45, 50, 248; reliability of writings, 6, 248; on ritual cycles, 259; on royal estates, 237, 240; on sacrifices, 250; on textiles, 207 Bingham, Hiram, 1, 60, 64n1, 235, 240, 245 Black, Max, 281 Bonavia, Duccio, 67 Bouchard, François, 225 Bray, Tamara, 6, 16, 26 Brezine, Carrie, 153–154 bridges: and engineer capabilities, 216, 230; and labor obligations, 153; pontoon bridges, 216. See also suspension bridges Brundage, Burr Cartwright, 69 Brüning, Hans Heinrich, 294 bultos (idols), 112, 249–250 Cabello Balboa, Miguel, 280, 325, 326. See also Cabello de Valboa, Miguel; Cabello Valboa, Miguel Cabello de Valboa, Miguel, 29 Cabello Valboa, Miguel, 309 Caillavet, Chantal, 329 Cajamarca: ambush of, 25; Battle of, 347; and provincial administration, 296 calendars: and agricultural technology, 122–123, 137–138, 143; and agricultural terraces, 133, 138; and astronomy, 122–123, 126, 127, 131, 137, 139, 141, 252; and ceque system, 11, 138– 143; geometry of, 126–127; and intercalation, 123, 127, 131, 137, 138, 144n2, 144n12; Julian calendar, 144n12; Molina’s accounts of, 29; and Moray site, 121, 126, 137–138, 143; and natural periodicities, 122; parallel calendars, 121; ritual/ calendrical system, 152 Callahuaya, 43 Callanpoma, Alonso, 352 Callapiña (leader of Pacaritambo), 348 Callauaya people, 33 Calnek, Edward, 271 camay (vital energy), concept of, 13, 112, 181, 181, 182, 189–190, 192–193n16, 193n17 camelids: in art, 165; and bultos, 251; in Chachapoya region, 319; domestication of, 97, 100; khipus made of camelid fiber, 151; and labor obligations, 103, 107–108; as napa, 249, 250; polychrome camelid hair weft yarns, 197–198; and textiles, 200, 207. See also herding Campana Pucara, 332 canals: and agricultural land, 75, 76; and agricultural terraces, 125; construction of, 110, 113, 217; cut into living stone,

193n21; maintenance of, 101; and pilgrimages, 141; and provincial administration, 293, 294, 295, 310, 314, 315, 316, 317; and royal estates, 235, 238; of Tipón, 186, 186 Cañaris: and Ingapirca, 190, 190; and Inka expansion, 326; as laborers, 238; as low-status group, 28; and re-historicization of Inkas, 353–354; as warriors, 107 Cantos de Andrada, Rodrigo, 47 Capac Ayllu, 268, 271 capac essence, 233 capacochas (highly sacred ritual offerings; sacred child sacrifices): gold and silver statues buried with, 170, 202; and preparation for eternity, 250; and provincial administration, 295; and textiles, 13, 112, 203–205 Capac Yupanqui, 30, 272 Capillapamba site, 339 Caquiaviri site, 8, 273, 275 Caquia Xaquixahuana (royal estate of Viracocha Inka), 237 Caranga people, 183 Caranqui-Cayambe: and Inka expansion, 325, 326, 328, 336; map of territories of, 329; pre-Inka sociopolitical development of, 16, 325, 328–331; and pucaras, 332; territory associated with, 329; and tolas, 329–330, 329 Carlos I (king of Spain), 349, 351 Carneiro, Robert L., 69 Casa, Cristóbal Choque, 34 Cascarilla Wasi site, 318 Catequil (provincial deity), 28 Catholicism: and administrators as imperial ethnographers, 25–26, 28–29, 31–32; and hechiceras, 355; Inka influences on, 29; and Inquisition, 355–356; management of “Indian” Christians, 31, 352; and Quechua, 123; and textiles, 207. See also idolatry causality, 122 Cayambe. See Caranqui-Cayambe ceja de selva, 307, 310, 311, 314, 320, 321, 338 Central Mallqui Research Institute, 58 ceque system: and calendars, 11, 138–143; functioning of, 12; and huacas, 139, 140, 142, 152, 173; and Inka religion, 11, 152; and khipus, 12, 139, 152; map showing, 140; and month of Aymuray, 142–143; Polo de Ondegardo’s study of, 26 ceramic jars with female standing figures, 165, 167, 167 ceramics: Black-on-Red Ceramic Horizon, 272, 275; and Caquiaviri site, 8; Chimú-influenced pottery, 291, 295, 299; Chimú-Inka, 289, 290, 296, 298; chronology of, 271; contextual analysis of, 12; Cuzco Polychrome, 287; evolution of, 8; and Farfán site, 289; figural images on, 165, 166, 189, 192n1; geometric designs, 222, 287; Guaraní-style ceramics, 269; human figure on, 165, 167, 167; Inka design style origin, 272–275; Inka flared-rim jar form, 289, 290, 297, 298, 299, 301n7; Inka imperial forms from Chinchero, 111; Inka imperial pottery, 75–76, 110, 272, 273, 276, 280, 294, 299, 334, 334, 335; Killke ceramics, 8, 76, 272, 273, 280; in Lake Titicaca region, 92; of Las Piedras fortress, 270, 270; linear form of, 165; and local traditions, 92, 287, 295, 296, 297–299; long-distance exchange of, 114; and maka, 218, 230n2; north coastal styles, 287, 293, 294, 295, 296–299; Pacajes ceramics, 114, 273, 275; Panzaleo, 334; production of, 15, 107, 110,

370  THE INKA EMPIRE

297–299, 300–301n6; Provincial Inka, 289, 297, 298; and pucaras, 332; and quenco wasi, 222; and Quito area, 334; and religious, political, historical, and social concepts, 165; studies of, 191; stylistic analysis of, 15; and Tiquischullpa excavations of house foundations, 273–275, 274, 275; Tiwanaku ceramics, 272, 277; and urpu, 189, 189, 193n22, 218, 230n2 Cereceda, Veronica, 186 Cerro Huaringa, mines of, 295 Cerrón-Palomino, Rodolfo, 7–8, 63, 144n13 Cervantes, Gabriela, 11, 108, 110, 115 Cervantes, Miguel de, 353 Chachapoya region: agricultural terraces in, 307, 316–317, 318; archaeological studies of, 310, 311, 320–321; culture of, 309– 310, 319–320; Inka conquest of, 266, 309–311, 318; Inka occupation of, 15, 266, 307, 353; Inka sites in, 311, 313–320, 321; khipus from, 150, 151, 307; Lake Condor in, 58; map of archaeological sites, 308, 318; political unrest in, 311, 353; resources of, 319–320; textiles of, 205, 206; and warriors, 107; and written records, 307, 309 chagual, 115n2 chakana design, 186, 187 Chakapata site, 339 chala zone, characteristics of, 215, 216 Chancas (Chankas): Achanchi site, 74; archaeological studies of, 70, 72, 74, 77, 85; confederation led by, 50; conquest of, 6, 44, 48, 50; hostilities of, 67, 69; and Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui, 69, 77 Chané Indians, 268 chaquira, 115n2 Charazani herbalists, 43 Charkas, as warriors, 107 Charlton, Thomas, 271 chaskiwasi (messenger’s posts), 86, 89 chasqui: carrying of khipus in relay system, 11; and roads, 216; and way stations, 227, 320 Chávez Ballón, Manuel, 133 Chavín de Huántar, 190 chicha (alcoholic maize drink): and aqllas, 201, 205, 222; and aríbolas, 297; and Chachapoya region, 319; and preparation for eternity, 250, 251; production of, 112; and storehouses, 289–290 Chile, 265, 266, 275, 281n1 Chimú Empire: administrative infrastructure of, 289, 300; art of, 189; development of, 307; Inkas’ conquering of, 5, 287, 288–289, 294, 299, 309; plazas of, 295. See also Peru, north coast of China, 144n12 Chinchaysuyu: and Chachapoya region, 309; conquest of, 45, 307; laborers from, 238; and Quechua, 49–50; as sector of empire, 2, 151, 172, 265, 266, 325–326 Chinchero (royal estate): agricultural terraces of, 239; architecture of, 220, 228, 237; ceramics of, 111; construction of, 238, 245; relationship to other estates, 242; and roads, 216; stone of, 224; storehouse complex at Machu Collca associated with, 236; and waterways, 217; and way stations, 227 Chipaya language, 47 Chiquitoy Viejo, 290–291, 290

Chiribayan sites, mitochondrial DNA analysis of, 61, 63 Choquepuqio, as Wari city, 49 Choquequirao: figural images of llama in stone terrace walls, 167, 167, 168, 169, 182; Machu Picchu compared to, 244 Chosi Kani, funeral tower of, 273, 276 Christ, statues of, 211 Chuchi Cápac (Colla king), 271, 280 chullpas (burial towers): Bolivian warp-patterned textile from, 200; and Caranga people, 183; and Chancas, 72; in Collasuyu, 273, 276, 276; and Lake Titicaca, 272; and Pisac site, 255, 256 Chuquis Guaman (or Huaman), 311, 319 Chuyes, as warriors, 107 Cieza de León, Pedro: on Chachapoya region, 307; and Chinchas, 50; Chronicle of Peru, 25, 25, 248; ethnographic observations of, 6, 25, 348; on Inca-Caranqui, 335, 337; on Inka Latacunga, 334, 335; on khipus, 149, 161; on Lake Titicaca, 272; map of route through northernmost Tawantinsuyu, 333; on northern frontier, 332, 333, 334, 335; on preparation for eternity, 251; on provincial administration, 86, 87, 89, 294, 295–296; and Quechua, 44, 45; on Spanish conquest, 347 Cleland, K. M., 296 Cobo, Bernabé: on administrative centers, 228; on agricultural production, 318; on architecture, 225–226; on bultos, 249– 250; on Cuzco, 185, 252; on economic policies, 102, 103; and Inka origins, 46; on Mayucati, 193n19; on provincial administration, 84; on tampus, 227; on textiles, 202–203 coca leaf economy: and consumable currencies, 112; and hechiceras, 355–356, 357; and Inka elites, 101–102; and Inka intervention, 27 cocha, 174, 192n10 Cochabamba: as administrative center, 311, 313–314, 320; construction of, 311, 313–314, 313, 316; farms established in, 107, 108, 299; maize cultivation project at, 11; mining in, 314, 319; and Quechua, 45; resettlement of colonists to, 105; site plan of, 311, 312; and storehouses, 113; view of plateau, 313 Cochasqui, 335 Coctaca-Rodero, agricultural terraces of, 108 Collaguas, visitas of, 27 Collas: archaeological studies of, 77, 85; confederations of, 280; fortress construction among, 71–72; and Inka Empire, 86; population of, 85; and Viracocha Inka, 267, 272; written records on, 85–86. See also Puquina (Pukina) Collas people Collasuyu: and archaeology-ethnohistory relationship, 7, 271, 277, 279, 280; architecture of, 271, 276–277, 279, 280; boundaries of, 265–269, 271, 280; chronology of Inka conquest of, 7, 8, 265, 269; chronology of Inka expansion into, 8, 15, 265, 266–267, 275; chullpas in, 276; and Cuzco region, 265; historical evidence of Inka conquest in, 267–268; Inka conquest of, 307; and Inka design style in ceramics, 271, 272–275, 279, 280; laborers from, 238; Las Piedras fortress, 270, 270; long-distance exchange in, 114; and Pacaás Novos Mountains, 269–271, 269; roads of, 87, 88; and Samaipata, 268–269, 271, 273, 277, 280; as sector of Inka Empire, 2, 151, 172, 265, 266 Collique: and craft production, 296; as tampu, 293

INDEX  371

Colonial period: and archaeology-ethnohistory relationship, 16, 35; and astronomical calendar events in landscape, 139; and Collasuyu, 265; counternarratives to Inka representation in, 32; disappearance of organizational knowledge and skills during, 12; and Inka identity, 2, 17, 358; Inka lineages in, 32; and khipus, 152, 160, 161; meaning of quilca in, 192n2; and mestizo population, 64; and pan-Andean ideal, 212; and Quechua, 41; and ritual performance, 183; and royal estates, 238; Spanish language in, 23; Tawantinsuyu represented in, 172–173, 173; textiles of, 17, 207, 208–209, 208, 209, 211– 212; and tunics, 208, 208, 209, 211, 211; written records of, 24, 32–34, 50 Columbus, Christopher, 56 commensal hospitality, and economic policies, 97, 112, 113, 115 complexity theory, 144n1 Congona site, architecture of, 310 Conrad, Geoffrey, 290–291 Consejo Real, 152 control theory, 141 Copacabana sanctuary, 104, 107, 115 Coricancha (Temple of the Sun): and astronomical observations, 126, 138, 139, 141, 142; and bultos, 250; curved stones of, 183; double-jamb trapezoidal interior doorway, 169, 170; exterior wall of, 165, 166, 169, 316; images in legendary garden of, 170; preservation of, 252; as sanctuary, 228; as type 1 building, 218 cosmological beliefs: and astronomy, 122–123; and camay, 13, 112, 181, 181, 182, 192–193n16; Catholic clergy’s accounts of, 28, 29; geometrical framework of, 121–122; Inka life rooted in, 14; and Inka rulers, 249; and Moray site, 126, 143; and provincial administration, 126, 309; and water, 14, 115, 186. See also Inka religion cosmology, definition of, 121, 144n1 Cotopaxi, 169 cotton warp yarn, 197 Council of the Indies, 27–28, 45 Covarrubias, Sebastián de, 192n15 Covey, Alan, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 15, 16 Coyas, as Inka queens, 151, 201, 205, 249, 356, 357, 358 craft production: case studies of, 15; and economic policies, 97, 101, 110, 112, 113; and kamayuq, 296; and labor tax, 102; and parcialidades, 297, 300–301n6; and provincial administration, 296, 299, 301n8; and regional styles, 170, 300; and resettlement of state artisans, 106; scale of, 110. See also textiles cumbi, 112, 181–182, 201, 206–207, 212n3, 352 cumbicamayos (master weavers): tapestry-weaving technique of, 197–199, 212; training of, 207; workshops of, 200 Cummins, Thomas, 12–13, 358 Cuntisuyu: boundaries of, 265, 266; Inka conquest of, 307; as sector of Inka Empire, 151, 172, 265, 266 curacas, as local lords, 158–159, 182, 183, 307, 310, 321 curacazgos (ethnic kingdoms), and Chachapoya region, 309, 311, 319, 320–321 Cusichaca, agricultural terraces of, 110, 242 Cuxirimay Ocllo, 32, 337 Cuyos, 241, 259

Cuzco city and region: as administrative center, 151–152, 158, 162, 172, 200, 205, 238, 248; archaeological survey projects in, 67, 69–70, 74, 75; architecture of, 185–186, 220, 276; and Aymara, 45, 46, 48, 49; boulder in Saphi/Huatanay River above, 186, 187; ceque system in, 11, 139, 140, 141, 142, 152; climate of, 76, 78n3; as cosmogram, 23, 140, 141, 252, 259; DNA analysis of populations of, 58–60, 62, 63–64, 68; ethnic integration of, 78; evolution of language in, 44, 50–51; and Inka ceramic style, 8, 275, 279; Inka culture of, 5; Inka elites in, 32; Inka expansion from, 16; and Inka origins, 57; Inka population base in, 76; Inka road in, 89; Inkas as conquerors of, 272; and Inka state development, 68, 69, 70, 74, 77, 85; in Late Intermediate Period, 75–77, 78; map of, 122; as microcosm, 248–249; in Middle Horizon Period, 74–75; mitochondrial DNA analysis results, 8, 59, 60; plaza as site of ritual performance, 173–175, 174, 176, 177, 178, 250; plaza buildings, 220, 295; and provincial administration, 267; and Quechua, 40, 41, 44, 45, 51n1; regional consolidation in, 70; and re-historicization of Inkas, 353; resettlement in, 107; rivers forming sacred limits of city, 175, 186, 187; and royal estates, 234; schematic drawing of twin plazas, 176; schematic representation of, 172–173, 173; settlement survey of, 74, 75; shrines of, 110; social division of, 175, 177, 187–188; sociopolitical organization of, 272; and Spanish conquest, 347; storehouses of, 90, 113, 221; urban center of, 76, 152 Cuzco Institute of Culture, 58, 59 Cuzcotoro, 269, 269, 271, 277, 280 Cuzco Valley Archaeological Project (CVAP), 75 D’Altroy, Terrence, 10–11, 84, 93 Dávila Briceño, Diego, map of, 28 Davis, Nigel, 67 Dean, Carolyn, 32, 358 death, conceptions of: Betanzos’s accounts of, 6, 14; in Inka culture, 5; interpretation of, 260; and materialized items, 251; and preparation for eternity, 250–251; and ritual performance, 249 Deeds, Eric, 24 Desrosiers, Sophie, 201, 204, 212n3 distribution of products, and economic policies, 97 DNA analysis: and human evolution, 55; and Inka origins, 55, 57–63, 64, 68; and three-step colonization model, 56. See also mitochondrial DNA analysis Dominicans, and written records, 28, 29 Donkin, Robin, 226 dressed miniature figurine, Inka, 202, 202, 203, 204, 212n5 dualities: and ayllus, 178, 180, 192n14; and exchange of cups, 177; and manufacture of identical pairs, 12, 169, 177, 178; principle of dual organization, 152, 159, 169; and yanantin, 186–187, 188, 189 Dumbarton Oaks Inka tunic (uncu), 165, 166, 169 Duviols, Pierre, 31 Earls, John: on agricultural terraces, 108, 110, 115, 129, 131, 133; on cosmological beliefs, 121–122, 126; on Moray site, 135, 136, 138, 143; and risk-dispersion strategies, 11; on water, 13 economic anthropology, 97, 115n1

372  THE INKA EMPIRE

economic policies: and agricultural production, 97, 101; and Andean way, 11, 113; archaeological analysis of, 114; balance of material and nonmaterial, 112; balance of political and economic spaces, 114; biological effects of, 114; and conscripted labor service, 10, 97, 101, 102–103, 113, 170; and cultural reconfiguration of Andes, 115; and domesticated camelids, 97, 100, 103, 107–108; and herding, 103, 107–108; infrastructure of, 112–113; intensification of productive resources, 108, 110; and labor taxes, 99, 102–103, 112, 113, 115; mitimaq as, 10; principles of, 97; productive foundations of, 101–102; and provincial administration, 296; and shift from corvée to retainership, 103, 113–114; specialized labor institutions, 102, 103, 107; and subject societies, 114–115; symbolic and ideological significance of, 11, 97 Ecuador: and ending of Inka Empire, 338–339; ethnic polities of northern highland Ecuador, 328–332; Inka archaeology in, 325, 327, 327, 332–338; Inka conquest of, 16, 325–326. See also Quito area Egypt, 248, 259 El Brujo, 225 Emery, Irene, 192n16 enqa, 354, 356 ENSO (El Niño Southern Oscillation), 100–101, 138 environmental phase lapse, 132, 133, 144n3 equatorial Andes, archaeological studies of, 325, 338–339 Espinosa Soriano, Waldemar, 328 Espíritu Pampa site, 244, 245 Estete, Miguel de, 25, 251 eternity, preparation for, 250–251 ethnocentric biases, of written records, 1 ethnohistory: and Andean agriculture, 135; and building function, 222; and cultural relativism, 247; and Inka origins, 55; and khipus, 160; and linguistics, 39, 40; of provinces, 26–28, 83, 89. See also archaeology-ethnohistory relationship; written records Evans, T. P., 144n6 Falcón, Francisco, 26, 102 Farfán site: archaeological study of, 289–290, 296; compounds of, 289, 289; frequency of female burials at, 290; and provincial administration, 289, 295; usnu platform at, 290 Farrington, Ian S., 141, 237 Feast of Corpus Christi, 349–350, 350 Flores Galindo, Alberto, 358n1 Flores Ochoa, Jorge A., 251, 354 Foucault, Michel, 162 Frame, Mary, 192n16 Franciscans, and written records, 28 Frézier, Amédée, 352 Galton, Francis, 281 Garcilaso de la Vega, Inka: on architecture, 220, 222; and Aymara, 46; on Chachapoya region, 309; on economic policies, 97; on provincial administration, 84; and Puquina, 47; and re-historicization of Inkas, 354; on ritual drinking vessels, 178; and Valera’s manuscript, 31, 307 Gateway of the Sun, 197

Geiger, Rudolph, 132 Girault, Louis, 43 Gisbert, Teresa, 32, 183 Glave, Luis Miguel, 358 Gondard, Pierre, 330 González Holguín, Diego, 30, 180, 186–187, 193n20 Great Rebellion of 1780, 358 Grigota (local chief), 268 Guacané (Inka chief), 268 Guaman Poma de Alaya, Felipe: on administrative strategies, 15–152; on aqllas, 201; counternarrative of, 32–33; depiction of aqllawasi complex, 87; depiction of Inka “viceroy” in litter, 88; depiction of pre-Inka age of universal conflict, 85; drawings of building types at royal estate, 220, 220, 221; drawings of ceramic portrait vessels, 8; drawings of headdresses, 277; drawings of mummies, 251; drawings of portraits with helmets, 277, 278; on Inka “coat of arms” symbols, 277, 279; on Inka origins, 280; on labor service, 102; New Chronicle and Good Government of Peru, 33, 33; Sapa Inka drinking to the Sun, 177, 177, 178; schematic representation of Cuzco and four suyu, 172–173, 173, 174; songs gathered by, 45; stone being transported by Inka for building, 181, 181; on symbols associated with Inkas, 279; on textiles, 208; watercolors for Murúa’s chronicle, 30 guanacos, 198, 200 Guancabelica people, 238 Guaraní Indians, 268, 269, 280 Guayla people, 238 Guchte, Maarten van der, 252 Guzmán, Natalia, 15, 26 hachasmonedas, 115n2 Hacienda San Agustín de Callo, 169, 335, 335 haplogroups: among Native Americans, 56; distribution of frequencies of, 57, 60, 61, 61, 64; and human migration, 55–56, 60; phylogenetic relationship based on haplogroup frequencies, 61–62, 61; principal component analysis of Andean populations, 62–63, 62 Hastings, C. M., 71 Hatuncancha, architectural remains of, 222 Hatunmarca (Wanka settlement), 71, 78n2 Hatun Xuaxa: development of, 71; Inka-style pottery of, 299; and productive resources, 108 Hayashida, Frances, 15, 26 Heffernan, Kenneth, 77 Helsley, Anne M., 293 herding: and camelid flocks, 97, 100, 103, 107–108, 151; and labor obligations, 153; and yanacunas, 103 Hernández Príncipe, Rodrigo, 31 Herrera, Antonio de, 277 high-altitude crops, in Late Intermediate Period, 72 hilltop fortresses: and Chancas, 72; and Collas, 71, 72, 86; in Cuzco region, 77; and Inka occupations, 16; in northern frontier, 332–333, 339, 339n1 Holdridge, Leslie, 131 Horkheimer, Hans, 143 Huaca de la Luna, dressed miniature figurine, 203, 204

INDEX  373

Huaca del Pueblo Batán Grande, 296 Huaca Larga, 295 Huaca Loro temple: East Tomb and West Tomb at, 178; male personage buried in East Tomb, 178, 179, 189 Huaca Lucía–Cholope, Temple of the Columns, 192n9 huacas: and camay, 182; and ceque system, 139, 140, 142, 152, 173; daily rituals at, 152, 352; and de-historicization of Inkas, 356–357; and extirpation campaigns, 31–32, 34; function of, 250, 252; and geometric form, 181; and hostage-taking, 15, 319; Inkas as patrons of, 34; Intihuatana, sun stone/huaca, 165, 166; and Pariacaca shrine, 190–191; and Pisac site, 253, 259; portable huacas, 190; and provincial administration, 87, 319; and royal estates, 228; sacrificial offerings for, 152; and Spanish extirpators of idolatry, 190, 193n23; stone carved in hill behind Sacsayhuaman, 180; and textiles, 211 Huacrachuco, Inka conquest of, 309 Huallaga region, map of archaeological sites, 308 Huamachuco, Catequil’s cult in, 28 Huánuco area, visitas of, 27 Huánuco Pampa site: as administrative center, 91, 91, 190, 228, 337; and aqllawasi, 222; architectural stone images of, 167; Inka-style pottery of, 299; plaza as sacred space for ritual celebrations, 173; plaza size, 295; quero with rectangular cut design, 175; temple of, 13; textiles of, 206, 222; and trapezoidal forms, 169, 170 Huarochirí Manuscript, 34, 34, 191 Huascar (Inka ruler): and Chachapoya region, 311, 321; and economic policies, 114; palace of, 220; and re-historicization of Inkas, 352; royal estates of, 235, 237, 240; and verification of successive kings of Inka state, 272; yanacunas as personal servants of, 103 Huatanay valley, royal estates of, 234, 235 Huata site: mitochondrial DNA analysis results in, 59, 61, 63; radiocarbon dating of, 59, 60–61; view of, 61 Huayna Capac (Inka ruler): and Cochabamba, 311; conquests of, 266, 269, 325, 328, 337, 338; death of, 326; and economic policies, 103, 107, 108; and Hacienda San Agustín, 169; palace of, 126, 220, 228; projects ordered by, 10; and provincial administration, 294, 296; and Quechua, 45, 51n1; and Quito area, 326, 333; representation with helmet, 278; royal estates of, 235, 237, 238, 240, 242, 243, 337; royal family of, 248; and site-construction dates, 11; tribute gifts to, 142–143; and verification of successive kings of Inka state, 272, 349 Huaytará, architecture of, 220 Huffman, Kyle, 185 Huinchiri, suspension bridge of, 227 human representation, 112 Humboldt Current, 9 Hyslop, John, 89, 113, 227, 294 Ica, textiles of, 205 idolatry: Archbishopric of Lima on, 29; and extirpation campaigns, 31–32, 34, 193n23, 352, 359n6 Imperial Cuzco-Inka ceramic style, 8 imperial infrastructures: and agricultural terraces, 216–217; and economic policies, 112–113; establishment of, 5, 10, 215; and provincial administration, 86–87, 93; and Spanish conquest,

83. See also roads Inca-Caranqui site: archaeological studies of, 335, 336–338; and provincial administration, 325, 328; semi-subterranean water temple, 336, 337, 337, 338 information distribution: hierarchical system, 137, 153; and khipus, 11, 12, 153; partitive/summative information, 153; and wayllqas, 136 Ingapirca, sun temple at, 183, 190, 190 Inka, meanings of term, 16–17, 24, 35 Inka culture: debates on, 34; essence of, 12–14; and geographical reports, 28; and landscape modifications, 5, 110, 309; and provincial administration, 112; Valera on, 31 Inka elites: and administrative centers, 91; and administrative perquisites, 87, 88; and challenges to conquistadores, 26; and coca leaf economy, 101–102; in Colonial period, 32; and economic policies, 113, 115; and fountains, 217; hegemony of, 34; and hereditary and acquired status, 4, 125, 201; and household service, 101, 103; and labor tax principles, 102– 103; palaces of, 5; and provincial administration, 83, 87, 89; and Quechua, 45, 83–84; services and goods provided by, 101–102; and Spanish conquest, 6, 347; and textiles, 197, 199, 200–201, 203, 205, 206, 207, 209, 211, 212 Inka Empire: climatic zones of, 99; ending of, 338–339, 347; expansive phase of, 2, 5, 5, 69, 77, 78, 85, 101, 215–216, 218, 227–228, 230, 230n1, 238, 266–267, 267, 271, 280; governance laws, 27; holistic, integrated vision of, 2, 17; interwoven nature of material, organizational, and ideological dimensions of, 12; legitimacy of, 121; maps of, 3, 98, 266, 267; multidisciplinary approaches to, 2, 4, 5, 7, 280–281; organization and operation of, 9–12, 272; and Pax Inkaica, 170, 172, 182, 299; political system of, 1, 4; processes of conquest, 5, 85–86; and subjugated societies, 4–5, 7, 26–28; unity and diversity coexisting within, 1, 2, 5; Wanka ethnic group consolidated into, 71. See also administrative strategies; Antisuyu; Chinchaysuyu; Collasuyu; Cuntisuyu; imperial infrastructures; provinces; provincial administration Inka identity: and Colonial period, 2, 17, 358; and textiles, 207 Inka Latacunga, 333, 334–335 Inka laws, and khipus, 26 Inka lineages: in Colonial period, 32; and historicization of Inkas, 349, 358; and intermarriage with Spanish, 32, 347; Spanish conquest illegally usurping sovereignty of, 26 Inka Llacta site, 315–316, 315, 320 Inka origins: and Cobo, 46; colonial narratives of, 84; and DNA analysis, 55, 57–63, 64, 68; and Islands of the Sun and the Moon, 107; and Lake Titicaca, 8, 9, 44, 46–47, 57, 63, 67–68, 77, 199, 200, 272, 276, 277; and linguistics, 44, 46–47, 55; myths distinguished from legends, 78n1; and myths of Inkas, 9, 57, 63, 67–68, 69, 77, 78, 86, 243, 272, 276, 277; and Pacaritambo cave, 8, 46, 57, 64, 67–68, 77, 170, 272, 277, 280, 348; and Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui, 69; and tocapu form, 183, 185 Inka Quito, 333–334 Inka religion: and administrative strategies, 152; and agricultural terraces, 217; and ceque system, 11, 152; and economic policies, 101, 108, 115; female religious officials, 84; and idolatry accusations, 29, 31; incorporation of conquered places, 190; and Inka origin myths, 68; and labor obligations, 107;

374  THE INKA EMPIRE

and labor taxes, 103; and landscape modifications, 110; and metal idols, 114; and Moray site, 135; and provincial administration, 86, 310–311, 315, 316, 317, 318, 319–320; religious sanctuaries, 215, 217, 228; ritual embodiment of Inka aesthetic, 173–175, 177–178, 180–182; and ritual objects, 169, 189–190; and ritual performance, 140–141, 142, 152, 170, 172–175, 177–178, 183, 249, 250–251, 290, 294; and ritual spaces, 185; sand as material of consecration and ritual dedication, 173, 174, 192n9; sites of, 92; textiles for religious officials, 201; written records on, 31–32, 34. See also pilgrimages and pilgrimage centers Inkarri, myth of, 354–355 Inka rulers: and ancestor veneration, 259; brother images of, 112; as bultos, 249–250; Catholic clergy exoticization of, 29; chronology of, 5; in Colonial period, 238; endogamy of, 64; and historicization of Inkas, 348–349, 350; imperial campaigns of, 86; inheritance mechanisms of, 247; and intermarriage with provincial leaders, 267, 294; intermarriage with Spanish, 32, 347; and marriage alliances, 70, 78; multiple identities of, 249; and mutual obligations, 97, 101; and preparation for eternity, 250–251; Quechua spoken by descendants of, 39; recovering lands of, 32; and re-historicized Inkas, 352; representations of, 207, 347–348; and ritual performance, 249; and royal succession, 86; and royal women, 33; sacredness of, 354; self-aggrandizing histories of, 14; symbols of, 279; and textiles, 205, 206, 207; traditional list of, 267, 272, 280, 348; and usnu platforms, 290. See also royal estates; and specific rulers Inkas: Chancas as rivals of, 72; de-historicization of Inkas, 351, 354–357, 358; demographic evolution of, 2; as ethnic group, 233; historical narratives of, 245, 347, 351; historicization of, 348–352, 354, 358, 358n1, 359n5; linguistic evolution of, 2, 5, 44, 51; oral transmission of history, 347; original language attributed to, 39; paradoxes of, 1; political evolution of, 2, 5; primary sources on, 23–35; re-historicized Inkas, 351, 352– 354, 358; representations of, 207, 247, 347–348, 351, 358; sociopolitical development of, 6; and state development, 67, 68, 69; textual legacies of, 24 Inka state formation: and archaeological surveys, 67, 69–70, 86; in Late Intermediate Period, 70, 76–77, 78; and origin myths, 67–68, 77, 86; and Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui legend, 68–70; and pre-Inka societies, 84–85; and unification of ethnic groups, 77–78 Inka studies, 1–2, 4 Inkawasi site, plaza at, 295 Inka women, political power of, 84 Inquisition, 347, 355 intercalation, 123, 127, 137, 138, 144n2, 144n12 Inti (deity): and cosmological beliefs, 14, 191, 249; and ritual performance, 178; subordination of local populations to, 15, 97, 115n3 Intihuatana, sun stone/huaca, 165, 166 irrigation: and agricultural technology, 99–100, 115, 121, 125, 135–136, 139, 143, 215, 217; and royal estates, 235 Island of Coati, and aqllawasi, 222 janca zone, characteristics of, 100, 110, 215, 216

Jara de la Cerda, Agustín, 349 Jayanca, as Inka provincial capital, 294 Jerez, Francisco de, 347 Jesuits, 29, 31 Judaism, 355 Julien, Catherine J.: on Collasuyu, 265, 266; on expansion of Inka Empire, 230n1; on Inka rulers, 348; on khipus, 26; on labor obligations, 102; on provincial administration, 83, 288, 300; on reliability of material evidence, 7; on written records, 24 Julius Caesar, 144n12 kamayuq (specialists), 296–297, 300 kancha (courtyard), 218 Kaulicke, Peter, 6, 13, 14 Kellett, Lucas, 70 Kendall, Ann, 110, 240 Khipu Database (KDB), 151 khipukamayuqs (knot-makers/organizers): and camay, 182; drawing of khipukamayu reading khipu, 158; in local context, 159; organization of, 12, 151, 158; and provincial administration, 152, 153–158, 161, 162; training of, 158, 162; and written Inka history, 39 khipus: as accounting device, 12, 26, 136–137, 138, 139, 149, 152, 153–158, 161; of camelid fiber, 151; and ceque system, 12, 139, 152; and Chachapoya region, 150, 151, 307; characteristics of, 149–151; and Collasuyu’s boundaries, 266, 268, 271; and color seriation, 156, 157, 160; and decimal ordering, 169; decoding of, 12, 26, 150, 191; drawing of khipukamayu reading khipu, 158; formulated algorithms on growing conditions coded in, 11; identity labels on, 158; indigenous noblemen’s use in lawsuits, 27; and information distribution, 11, 12, 149; and Inka elites’ challenges to conquistadores, 26; as Inkaperiod sources, 6; level I tier of accounting hierarchy, 154, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158; level II tier of accounting hierarchy, 154, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158; level III tier of accounting hierarchy, 154, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158; mimicry of, 32; and partitive/summative information, 153, 154, 156, 157; and pendant string groupings, 156, 160; principle of dual organization, 152, 159, 169; and provincial administration, 152–158; and Santa Valley archive, 159–161, 160, 161; schematic diagram of three-tier accounting hierarchy, 154; state-level information in, 139; subunits of, 154, 156; and textiles, 212n11; tiered knots on, 150; written records of, 25, 31, 35, 149, 150, 160 Killick, David, 2, 4 Killke ceramics, 8, 76, 272, 273, 280 kinship: and administrative strategies, 83, 85, 267, 280, 294; and economic policies, 101 Kosok, Paul, 294 Kuelap, settlement of, 310 kuraka (curaca), as term, 84 labor obligations: and decimal organization, 152–153, 153; and economic policies, 10, 97, 101, 102–103, 113, 170; and labor taxes, 99, 102–103, 112, 113, 115; and minka exchange, 101; penalties for abandonment of duties, 107, 115; and provincial administration, 288, 296–297, 299, 320; as resource, 99; and

INDEX  375

royal estates, 99, 238; and shift from corvée to retainership, 103, 113–114; and specialized labor institutions, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107. See also mit’a (labor tribute) Lake Condor, DNA analysis from, 58, 61, 61 Lake Poopó, Inka conquest of, 267 Lake Titicaca: archaeology of, 48, 71–72, 86; and Chankas, 72; and Inka ceramic style, 8, 92, 92, 279; Inka conquest of, 267, 271, 272, 275, 276, 277; and Inka ideological connection, 279; and Inka origins, 8, 9, 44, 46–47, 57, 63, 67–68, 77, 199, 200, 272, 276, 277; and Inka religion, 200; Inka weaving centers near, 201; Island of the Moon, 221; Island of the Sun, 220, 228; lakeside kingdoms of, 27; language of lakeside inhabitants, 42; Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua on, 33; and Puquina, 43; ritual sand from, 174. See also Tiwanaku (Tiahuanaco) Lambayeque: coastal trunk road in, 291; Inka sites in, 291, 293; organization into parcialidades, 291, 293–294, 300–301n6; and provincial administration, 291, 293, 295 land rights, Andean land rights, 211 landscape modifications: and architecture, 228–229, 229; and astronomy, 314; in Cochabamba, 311, 313–314; in Inka culture, 5, 110, 309; and manipulated water systems, 13, 215, 217; as political statement, 259; and provincial administration, 310, 311, 313–314, 318, 319, 321; and royal estates, 238, 239, 245. See also agricultural terraces; roads; settlements landscapes: and ceque system, 139, 140, 141, 142, 173; components of, 252; consciousness in features of, 112, 115, 229, 229; importance of, 13, 252; instability of, 217; and provincial administration, 295, 309; sacredness of, 13, 190, 217, 228, 229, 252, 259, 309, 316, 319, 320. See also water Larrain, Horacio, 329 Las Casas, Bartolomé de, 24, 29, 31 Late Horizon Period: and Late Intermediate Period boundary, 77; and linguistics, 40, 51; state development in, 70 Late Intermediate Period: archaeological studies of, 68, 85–86; central Andes in, 70–72, 70, 74; and Chachapoya region, 310; climate changes of, 85; cultural developments during, 8, 48, 70; Cuzco region in, 74–77, 78; and Inka ceramic styles in Titicaca basin, 92; Inka rulers of, 2, 5; Inka state development in, 70, 78; languages and peoples in, 43; and Late Horizon Period boundary, 77; and linguistics, 40, 48, 49, 51; and local–Inka interaction, 9; and productive resources, 108; trends of, 74–77 La Viña: Google Earth satellite image of, 293; map of, 292; plaza of, 293, 294–295, 300; pottery production at, 15, 294, 297, 298; as provincial administrative center, 294; as tampu, 293 Lechtman, Heather, 192–193n16 Lee, Vincent R., 225, 245 Levine, Abigail R., 296 LeVine, Terry Y., 151 life, conceptions of: Betanzos’s accounts of, 6, 14; in Inka culture, 5; and Inka’s bodies, 248–250; and materialized items, 251 Lima, Archbishopric of, written records of, 28–29, 31–32 Limatambo region, settlement patterns of, 77 linguistics: and archaeology-ethnohistory relationship, 7–8; and bilingualism, 23, 34, 42, 44, 49, 50; evolution of Inka language, 2, 5; historical correlations of Inka languages, 44–48; and historiography, 35; languages of ancient Peru, 40–44;

and lexical stratification hypothesis, 8; periods and contacts, 48–50; Puquina as so-called secret language, 7, 51 llamas, 97, 100, 107, 108, 112, 151 Lloque Yupanqui, 349, 352–353 Lobato de Sosa, Diego, 33–34 local context: and administrative strategies, 151, 158–161, 159, 288, 295, 299, 309; and architecture, 13, 215, 216, 218, 225, 228, 230, 289, 294; Inka adaptability to, 13, 15–16; and limits of Inka dominance, 92–93; and provincial administration, 87, 89, 92–93, 288, 293, 295, 299, 309, 310; and textiles, 205–207, 206 local leaders: political relationship between Inka and local leaders, 13, 288, 310, 319, 338, 339; and ritual drinking vessels, 12–13, 110, 112, 182, 183, 191 López, Freddy, 330 Lorandi, Anna María, 299 lordly largess, of Inka culture, 5, 17 Lorente, Sebastián, 294 Loyola, Martín de, 209 lunar cycles, 122–123, 138, 139, 144n2 Lupaca: archaeological data on, 71, 85; population of, 85; and Viracocha Inka, 267, 272; written records on, 85–86, 276–277 Luringuanca people, 238 Machu Collca, storehouse complex of, 236 Machuhera, 127 Machu Picchu: agricultural terraces of, 108, 186, 243, 243; and aqllawasi, 222; archaeological study of, 240, 245; architecture of, 237, 240–241, 243–244, 245; Bingham’s “discovery” of, 60; centennial of Bingham’s rediscovery of, 1; construction of, 240, 242, 243; curved walls of, 183; DNA analysis from, 58, 63–64, 64n1; function of, 240, 242; “King’s Group” complex, 235; labor force of, 243; Main Temple, 218; map of, 58; mitochondrial DNA analysis results, 59, 60, 62; overview of, 241; Patallacta site linked to, 242, 244; as royal estate, 228, 230, 244, 245, 253; Temple of the Three Windows, 168, 169, 218, 229, 229; Torreon, 228; and trapezoidal form, 170; view across main plaza, 244; view of Urubamba canyon from, 241, 242, 242; and waterways, 217, 244; and Yanantin, 229, 229 Machu Picchu Park, 58, 64n1 Mackey, Carol, 153–154, 289, 290, 296, 299 maize production: and agricultural terraces, 125, 133, 135, 144n8; and Cochabamba, 107; in Cuzco region, 76; and royal estates, 235 male tunic (uncu): 199, 200; with butterfly design, 208, 208; with lions and double-headed crowned eagles, 208; military, with checkerboard design, 170, 171, 203; regional, with Inkastyle designs, 206; with tocapu design(s), 165, 166, 169, 181; with tocapu and feline pelt design, 208, 209, 211; with waistband (chumpi) of diamond tocapu shape, 183, 184 Mallkullacta, and trapezoidal forms, 170 Malqui-Machay site, 339 mama, as Inka elite, 83–84 Mamacocha, 174, 189 mamaconas (convents of Chosen Women), 221, 222 Mama Ocllo Coya, 33, 51n1, 67, 326 Manco Capac, 46, 47, 67, 208, 233, 348, 349, 351

376  THE INKA EMPIRE

Manco Inka, 235, 244 Mannheim, Bruce, 185 man with helmet, from Tiwanaku portrait vessel collection of Pariti, 278 Maras, 125, 126, 140–141, 142, 272 Martínez, Lucas, 265 Martínez Compañon, Baltasar Jaime, 310 Marxism, and Andean way, 11, 113 mascapaycha (headgear), 207, 249, 250, 277, 279, 349–350, 353–354 material culture: and archaeology-ethnohistory relationship, 7, 77, 271; historiographic interpretations of, 247; limited distribution of, 92, 93, 287, 288, 300; standardized style of, 287, 288, 297, 300; visual language of, 218. See also architecture; art; ceramics; craft production; metal art; textiles material presence, of Inka culture, 5 Matienzo, Juan de, 26 Mato Grosso area, Inka expansion into, 7 Matos Mendieta, Ramiro, 71 Mayta Capac, 267, 272, 349 Mayucati (ritual sacrifice), 186, 187, 193n19 Means, Philip A., 266 Meddens, Frank, 139 Memorial de Charcas, 27 memory construction, 248, 250–251, 252, 347 men: garments of, 202, 204. See also male tunic (uncu); tunic(s) Mena, Cristóbal de, 25 Menzel, Dorothy, 15 Mercedarians, 28, 29, 51n1 metal art: and camay, 193n16; contextual analysis of, 12; and figural forms, 170, 172; imperial styles of, 110; long-distance exchange of, 114; and provincial administration, 296, 297, 301n8; and religious, political, historical, and social concepts, 165; studies of, 191; written records of, 170 Metonic cycle, 131, 139, 144n2 Meyers, Albert, 268 microclimatic variation: algorithms of, 11; and Moray site, 121, 123, 126, 132–135, 136, 137 Middle Horizon Period, 70, 74, 75 military service: and administrative centers, 113; and economic policies, 97; exemptions from, 288; and labor tax, 102, 107; and llamas, 108; and storehouses, 221; textiles for royal army, 201; and tunics, 170, 171, 183, 184, 192n7, 203, 205, 218 Milliraya, 206, 296, 299 mindaláes (long-distance traders), and pre-Inka sociopolitical landscape, 16, 331 mines and mining: and Chachapoya region, 314, 319; and labor obligations, 102, 103, 107; and metal art, 170; and provincial administration, 295; and Vilcabamba region, 241 minka exchange, and labor obligations, 101 mit’a (labor tribute): and Colonial era census reports, 161; households responsible for, 102; and provincial administration, 83, 152–153, 288, 296; and textiles, 206 mitimaes (permanently relocated specialists): archaeological investigations of, 92; and Chachapoya region, 321; as colonists, 269; and Cuzco genetic composition, 60, 63–64; and Ecuador, 338; and population exchanges, 89; and Quito area,

326, 334, 339; and re-historicization of Inkas, 353; and royal estates, 14, 234; and Spanish conquest, 347; and terrace construction, 125; and verticality, 10 mitimaq, 10, 60, 64 mitmaqkuna program, 103, 107, 114, 296 mitochondrial DNA (mtDNA) analysis: and characterization of populations, 8; distribution of haplogroup frequencies, 57; and human migration, 55–57, 60, 63–64; and origin of indigenous populations of New World, 56–57 Moche V site of Pampa Grande, 301n6 Mochica (Moche): ceramics produced by, 15; language of, 42; realism in art of, 12 moieties, 152, 159, 159, 178, 188, 250, 267, 313, 349 Molina, Cristóbal de, Account of the Fables and Rites of the Inkas, 29, 193n19 Molino-Chilachachi site, 58, 61, 61 money, types of, 97, 112, 115n2 montaña zone, characteristics of, 100, 100, 338, 339 Montesinos, Fernando de, 34, 337 Moore, Jerry D., 295 Moquegua archaeological project, 265 Moray site: agricultural terraces of, 123, 123, 124, 125–126, 125, 127, 128, 129, 131–136, 143; alternative interpretation of, 135–136; arched linear terraces sunrise event, 127, 128; as astronomical observatory, 11, 121, 126–131, 138, 143; and ceque system, 142; and coordination, 137, 138; and cosmological beliefs, 126, 143; drop structures, 125, 125, 135, 136; location of, 123, 125; maps of, 122, 140; muyus of, 123, 124, 125, 127, 129, 130, 131, 133–135, 138, 143; naming of, 142, 144n13; phases of   “noon sunset,” 127, 129, 129, 130, 131, 138; as pilgrimage center, 11, 139–142; plan of terrace system, 124; present-day traditions of, 126; purpose of, 135, 143, 172; and risk-dispersion strategies, 11, 121, 137; and soil temperature, 133–135, 134, 136, 143, 144n8, 144n9; and transduction, 136–137 Morcillo (viceroy), 207 Morris, Craig R., 91, 221–222, 223 Moseley, Michael E., 265 Motupe tampu, 293 Mulahaló, 335 Mumford, Jeremy, 358–359n3 mummies, 202: and ancestor veneration, 14; Bingham’s investigation of, 60; as bultos, 249; Catholic clergy’s accounts of, 28; cult of royal mummies, 242; and heterodoxy, 31; male personage buried in East Tomb at Huaca Loro, 178, 179, 189; Polo de Ondegardo on, 26; and ritual performances, 251–252; and royal estates, 233, 235, 237, 240, 245; of Sapa Inkas, 175, 177, 354; ylla identified with, 251 Murra, John V.: on Andean interzonal ecological complementarity, 131; functionalism, 247; on Inka economy, 97, 102, 103, 108; on Inka expansion, 266; on nature of Inka conquests, 7; on provinces, 83 Murúa, Martín de: on Chachapoya region, 309; drawing of khipukamayuq reading khipu, 158; drawings of ceramic portrait vessels, 8; drawings of portrait with helmet, 277, 278; Guaman Poma drawing illustrations of, 33; History of the Origin and Royal Genealogy of the Inka Kings, 29, 30; on labor

INDEX  377

service, 102; Sapa Inka drinking to the Sun, 177, 177; schematic representation of Cuzco and four suyu, 172–173, 173; on textiles, 201, 212; on training of khipukamayuqs, 158; on Viracocha Inka, 280 mutual obligations, and Inka rulers, 97, 101 Muyuch’urqu site, 77 Nair, Stella, 12, 13, 115 Nasca, textiles of, 205 National Museum of Anthropology and Archaeology of Peru, 60 Native Americans: genetic characteristics of, 57; haplogroups among, 56 natural resources, 99–101 Negro Pulido, 114 neo-indigenism, 247 Neoplatonism, 31 Niles, Susan, 10, 13–14, 240 Ñusta, Beatriz, 209, 210 objects: and craft production, 110, 112; Inkas’ relationship with material things, 112; ritual objects, 169, 189–190. See also stone and stone objects Oblitas Poblete, Enrique, 43 Oliva, Anello, 31 Ollantaytambo (royal estate): agricultural terraces of, 108, 110, 242; architecture of, 228, 237; and astronomical events, 126, 141, 142; construction of, 238, 241; cut-stone masonry at, 224; irrigation systems of, 242; and Pachacuti, 253; stone of, 224; stones with chakana design, 186, 187; storehouses of, 235, 236; sun on stone wall at, 180, 181; Sun Temple, 224 omagua (low jungle) zone, characteristics of, 100, 215, 216 onomastics, 7, 43, 45, 46, 47, 49, 51 Oré, Jerónimo de, 43, 192n7 Orlove, Ben, 138 Oropesa basin, 75 Otavalo, 329, 335 Our Lady of Guadalupe de Extremadura, 352 Pacajes ceramics, 114, 273, 275 Pacariqtambo Archaeological Project (PAP), 75 Pacaritambo cave: and Inka origins, 8, 46, 57, 64, 67–68, 77, 170, 272, 277, 280, 348; and tocapu designs, 183, 185 Pacasa: architecture of, 276; emergence of chiefdom, 271–272; and state-controlled distribution of ceramics, 275; written records on, 276–277 paccha(s) (ritual vessel(s)), 188–189, 188, 297; in the form of ear of maize, urpu and chakitaclla, 189, 189; in form of forearm and hand offering quero, 188, 189 Pachacamac: Mamacona, 221, 222, 230n3; meaning of, 182; plaza at, 295; as pre-Inka and Inka religious and administrative center, 158, 173; sanctuaries of, 228; Spanish sacking of, 25; sun temple of, 190, 191, 295; textiles of, 205, 205, 209, 300; and trapezoidal forms, 169 Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui (Inka ruler): and Aymara, 41, 45, 46, 50; conquests of, 266, 267, 268, 309; and development of Inka state, 67, 68, 348; funerary treatment of, 250–251; as historical king, 9; Huayna Capac’s gifts to, 240; and Inka

expansion, 266, 280; and landscape modifications, 259; legend of, 68–70, 77; and Machu Picchu, 240, 241–242, 243– 244, 245, 253; military campaigns of, 86; Moray site associated with, 125; Pisac associated with, 14; and Quechua, 46, 48; and resettlement policy, 107; royal estates of, 228, 235, 237, 238, 253; succession of, 326; at Tiwanaku, 185–186; and verification of successive kings of Inka state, 272; and Vilcabamba campaign, 241–242; wars initiated by, 50 Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua, Juan de Santa Cruz, 22, 33, 183, 185, 272 Pachamama (Earth Mother), 101, 127, 189, 228 Pais Caranqui site, 330 Palmitopamba site, ­339 Pampa de Chaparrí, map of site 2839X01 on, 293, 293, 301n7 panacas (descendants of founding ruler): and agricultural terraces, 217; and capac essence, 233, 234; and historicization of Inkas, 349, 350; and Huayna Capac, 326; and ritual performance, 175; and royal estates, 14, 233, 234, 235, 237, 238, 245; and sacrificial offerings, 152; and sociopolitical organization of Cuzco, 272 Papamarca, settlement of, 310 Paracas peninsula, textile traditions of, 197 parcialidades: and craft production, 297, 300–301n6; in Lambayeque, 291, 293–294; and Pasto, 331 Pariacaca shrine, 190–191 Pariti island: and Inka origins, 63; and Tiwanaku ceramic portrait vessels, 277, 278, 279 Pariti portraits, headdresses on, 8 Parsons, J. R., 71 Pärssinen, Martti: on Antisuyu, 15; on archaeology-ethnohistory relationship, 7; on chronology of Inka expansion, 16, 307; and Inka origins, 8, 63; and Lake Titicaca region, 48, 63; on provincial ethnohistory, 26; and sociopolitical developments in Cuzco region, 9 Pascuala Baja site, 317 Pasto: and Inka expansion, 325; map of territories of, 329; preInka sociopolitical development of, 16, 325, 331 pastoralism, in Late Intermediate Period, 72 Pata Llacta site, 317–318. See also Patallacta site Patallacta site: AMS dating of skeletons, 59, 59; Bingham’s investigation of, 60; burial 8 excavation, 60; DNA analysis of, 58–59; Machu Picchu linked to, 242, 244; map of Machu Picchu, 58; mitochondrial DNA analysis of, 59, 59; overview of, 242; Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui buried at, 250–251; provincial Inka-style plate accompanying burial 3, 60; satellite image of, 58 Paucar Usno, 268 Pauro region, settlement patterns of, 77 Pease, Franklin, 354 personal services, and labor tax, 102 Peru, north coast of: archaeology on, 287, 288–291, 293–296; Chimú Empire along, 288–289; Inka pottery production on, 297–299; Inka sites in Lambayeque, 291; Inka sites on, 288; production of north coastal styles, 296–297, 299, 300 Philip IV (king of Spain), 352 Philip V (king of Spain), 352 Phipps, Elena, 12, 13, 17

378  THE INKA EMPIRE

Phuyupatamarka: building and settlement forms, 229, 229; Machu Picchu linked to, 242 Pietschmann, Richard, 33 Pikillacta, as Wari administrative center, 49, 74, 75 Pilco Kayma: multiroom building of, 220; plan of, 221 pilgrimages and pilgrimage centers: Moray site as, 11, 139–142; and natural periodicities, 122; Pachacamac as, 205; and provincial administration, 143; and roads, 87, 92; and symmetrical inversions, 141–142; as transducers, 139–141 Pillaguaso (warlord), 326 Pillsbury, Joanne, 24 Pinahua, 77, 78 piñas (slaves), and provincial administration, 89 Pirapi Chico, funeral tower in, 273, 276, 276 Pisac site: aerial photo of, 253; agricultural terraces of, 108, 230, 255, 255; and ancestor veneration, 259; Antachaca aqueduct, 255, 257; archaeological remains of, 6; architecture of, 243; and astronomical events, 126; channel in Intiwatana sector, 258; construction of, 241; funerary structures of, 255, 256, 259; interior trapezoidal wall niches, 168, 169; Intiwatana sector, 255, 258, 259; map of, 254; materialized evidence of, 248, 259; Pisaqa sector, 255; ritual landscape of, 252; row of Killke chullpas, 255, 256; as royal estate, 237, 253; second aqueduct, 255, 257; spatial-architectural organization of, 14, 253, 255; in Urubamba valley, 4 Pizarro, Francisco: assault on Atahualpa, 24, 207, 338, 347, 352; and encomienda grants, 265; manner of dress, 207; and overthrow of Inka Empire, 1; and Pasto, 331; and royal estates, 238 Pizarro, Hernando, 222 Pizarro, Pedro: on architecture, 218, 220, 221; assault on Atahualpa, 24; narrative of, 25; and re-historicization of Inkas, 354; and royal estates, 238 Platt, Tristan, 180 Plaza Schuller, Fernando, 332, 333 Polo, José Toribio, 42 Polo de Ondegardo, Juan, 26, 86, 173 Poma, Hernando Hacas, 31 Poma Guala, Alonso, 351 pontoon bridges, 216 Porras Barrenechea, Raúl, 35 Porres, Diego de, 29 Portrero Chaquiago, pottery production at, 299 Posic site, 316–317, 317, 318, 318, 319 Posope Tambo: plan and current view of, 292; as tampu, 293 power relations, and administrative strategies, 162 protolanguage: and Aymara, 42; and Quechua, 40–41 Protzen, Jean-Pierre, 12, 13, 110, 115, 240 provinces: ethnohistory of, 26–28; map of, 98; personal level of ties with Cuzco, 267; practices of, 1; as self-sufficient, 114; studies of, 2, 5, 10 provincial administration: administrative centers, 91, 91, 93, 113, 288, 290, 294, 295, 311, 313–314, 320, 334–336; archaeological data on, 83, 93; contested nature of, 15, 103, 266–267, 311; and cosmological beliefs, 126, 143; and crop cultivation, 11; establishment of, 86–87; evolution of, 325, 339; and Inka culture, 112; and Inkanization, 10, 14–17; intensity of, 83; and

intermarriage, 267, 294; and khipus, 152–159; and labor obligations, 288, 296–297, 299, 320; local societies under Inka rule, 87, 89, 92–93, 288, 293, 295, 299, 309, 310; and military colonies, 89; models for, 84; models of Inka conquest and control, 5; and Peru, north coast of, 288, 289, 291, 295; and resettlement campaigns, 89; and ritual performances, 294– 295; and specialist communities, 89; and storehouses, 113; and usnu platform, 290, 294, 311, 314, 315, 320; variability in, 9, 10, 15–16, 84, 309. See also khipus Proyecto Qhapaq Ñan, 89 Pucara Guayllabamba, 332 Pucara Rumicucho, 332 pucaras (hilltop fortresses), in northern frontier, 332–333, 339, 339n1 Pucara San Luis, 332 pucuy/chirao seasonal axis, 141–142 Puento, Jerónimo, 332 Puento, Nasacoto, 329 Pukara Pantilliclla site, 255, 259. See also Pukara Pantillijlla site Pukara Pantillijlla site, 77 Pukarumi site, 314–315, 314, 315, 316, 318, 320 Pulgar Vidal, Javier, 99, 100 puma chupan, 175, 187, 191 Pumahuanca, 126–127, 127, 131 Pumpu site: and aqllawasi, 222; canal-fed pool of, 294; plaza of, 295; and provincial administration, 337 puna zone, characteristics of, 100, 215, 216 Puquina (Pukina) Collas people: archaeological studies of, 70, 77; headdresses of, 277; historical facts attributed to, 47; memory of, 42; migrations of, 49; portraits of, 8, 277, 278; symbols of, 279; textile ear ornaments of, 277, 279 Puquina language: diaspora of, 48–49; extinction of, 42; geographical area covered by, 43, 43; and historical correlations, 44, 46–48; and Inka origins, 68; as language of Inkas, 7, 46–48, 51, 63; and Moray site, 144n13; premises concerning, 43–44 purucaya, 250, 251 Puruchuco site, khipus of, 153–154, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158 Putucusi (mountain), 229, 229 Q’asana (palace of Huayna Capac), buildings of, 220 qhapaq hucha (capacocha), testimonies on, 27 Qin Dynasty, 144n12 qollqa (storehouses), 87, 137, 221. See also storehouses and storage facilities quebradas (small valleys), 100 Quechua: Acosta’s catechetical texts in, 29; as administrative language, 7, 10, 44–45, 46, 50, 86; Betanzos’s knowledge of, 6, 248; camay concept, 181, 181; and Chinchaysuyu, 49–50; dialectal diversity of, 40–41; dictionaries of, 29, 30, 31; evolution of, 40–41, 44; geographical area covered by, 43; grammar of, 39; and historical correlations, 44–45, 47; and Inka origins, 68; as language of Inkas, 39, 45, 51; lexicon for Inka elites, 83–84; as mandatory language, 44, 51n1, 86; and mitimaq, 10; recursive form in, 192n4, 192n12; and scribes for natives, 23; textiles, 199; and toponyms, 252; translation of, 248

INDEX  379

quechua zones: and agricultural production, 99–100; and Chachapoya region, 311, 318; characteristics of, 100, 215, 216 quenco wasi, 221, 222 quero(s): in chullpas, 183; excavated at Huánuco Pampa, 175; helmets depicted on, 277; as pairs, 178, 180, 189; representations of Inka kings on, 357, 357; and tocapu designs, 209 Quichua people, 238 Quillacingas, as warriors, 107 Quinchecaxa, 326 Quinsacocha Lake, 255 Quiroga, Pedro de, 44, 45 Quispiguanca (royal estate of Huayna Capac), architecture of, 220, 228, 235, 243 Quito, Archbishopric of, written records of, 29 Quito area: and ending of Inka Empire, 338; Inka sites in, 325, 333–334, 338; and mitimaes, 326; visitas of, 27, 27; written records of, 325–326, 333, 334 Quitoloma, 332 Quizquiz (Inka general), 108 Radicati di Primeglio, Carlos, 160, 161 radiocarbon dating: and historical chronology, 280; of Huata site, 59, 60–61; and Inka sites in Ecuador, 325, 327, 327; of Lake Titicaca/Pacasa province, 271; of Sacsayhuaman site, 58, 59; of Tiquischullpa, 273; of tolas, 330 rainfall farming, in Cuzco region, 75 raised-field systems, and Lake Titicaca basin, 71 Rappaport, Roy, 136 Raqchi site: and aqllawasi, 222; cut-stone masonry topped with adobes, 224, 224; as sanctuary, 228; temple at, 88, 224 reciprocity, and administrative strategies, 83 Regional Archive of Cuzco, 347, 349 Reinhard, Johan, 203 Republican period, and Quechua, 41 residential-administrative sites, and Inka occupations, 16 resources: censuses on productivity and stored materials, 102; intensification of productive resources, 108, 110; and khipus, 158; and lack of state monopoly, 103; and long-distance exchange, 102, 142; natural resources, 99–101; and productive capacities of taxpayers, 97, 99; and provincial administration, 319–320; shared and limited access to, 97, 101, 102, 114; spatial distributions of, 112–113 revisitas (Colonial era census recounts), 160–161 risk-dispersion strategies, and agricultural technology, 11, 121, 132, 137, 144n5 ritual drinking vessels: and aesthetic principles, 187; as cocha, 192n10; as figural sculptures, 170, 172; as gifts bestowed on local leaders, 12–13, 110, 112, 182, 183, 191; one of a pair of wooden drinking cups, 178, 179; pair of small golden aquillas, 177, 177; recursive form in, 175, 175, 192n12; and ritual performance, 177–178, 183, 189; standing sculpture of figure holding quero at Tiwanaku, 179; and tocapu designs, 209 roads: and administrative centers, 91; characteristics of, 216; and economic policies, 112, 113; and huacas, 87, 92; and labor obligations, 153; map of, 98; on north coast of Peru, 290–291, 293, 294, 295; population shifts toward, 91; and provincial administration, 10, 83, 86–87, 89, 91, 93, 294, 295,

296, 311, 314, 320, 321; and regional exchange network, 78; rehabilitated Inka road in Cuzco region, 89; role of khipus in layout of, 12; small storage complex in Cuzco region, 90 rocks, as communication points, 252 Rodadero, textiles of, 206 Roman Empire, 113, 144n12, 170, 192n6 Román y Zamora, Jerónimo, 108 roofs, 225–226 Rosaspata site, 244, 245 Rostworowski de Diez Canseco, María, 49, 125 Rowe, Ann, 204, 205, 212n6, 300 Rowe, John H.: on ceramics, 287; chronology established by, 16, 265, 266, 267, 268, 271, 280; on Collasuyu, 265, 271; on Cuzco region, 74; on expansion of Inka Empire, 230n1; on “Inka Renaissance,” 358; on Machu Picchu, 240, 241–242; and North American historicism, 247; on provincial administration, 83; on puma chupan, 191; on Spanish chroniclers, 67, 69; on textiles, 203, 300 royal estates: and agricultural production, 235, 242; agricultural terraces of, 110, 217, 233, 235, 237, 238; and archaeologyethnohistory relationship, 13, 245; architecture of, 110, 215, 228, 237, 245; and economic policies, 97, 99, 235; founding of, 238; function of, 233, 234–235, 238, 245; labor force of, 14, 103, 107, 114, 234; map of, 234; and merger of personal and political, 14, 240; and roads, 216; social structure of, 234, 244; and water management, 217; and waterways, 217; and written records, 233, 237, 240. See also specific estates Ruiz, Bartolomé, 25 Rumiñawi (Atahualpa’s general), 338 rupa rupa (high jungle) zone, characteristics of, 215, 216 rural areas, DNA analysis compared with urban areas, 60–61 Sacred Valley Archaeological Project (SVAP), 75 sacrificial victims: human sacrifices, 92, 102, 203, 250; roads as conduit for selection of, 87; and textiles, 203. See also capacochas (sacred child sacrifices) Sacsayhuaman site: DNA analysis from, 58; mitochondrial DNA analysis results from, 59, 59, 60, 62; radiocarbon dating of, 58, 59; satellite image of, 58; stone carved in hill behind, 180; temple/fortress of, 175, 176 Salomon, Frank, 6, 182, 330 Samaipata: and Inka conquests, 268–269, 280; radiocarbon samples from, 273, 277 sanctuaries, architecture of, 215, 217, 228, 230 San Pedro, Juan de, 28 Santa Ana Series, 349–350 Santa Valley archive, and khipus, 159–161, 160, 161 Santillán, Hernando de, 27, 86 Santo Tomás, Domingo de, 29, 192n14 Sapa Inka: and administrative hierarchy, 151–152; conception of, 5, 178, 248; and metal art, 170, 172; mummies of, 175, 177, 354; role of, 12; as supreme ruler, 4, 151, 170 Saqsayhuaman Archaeological Park, ritual landscape of, 252–253 Sarmiento de Gamboa, Pedro: on Cañaris, 326; on Chachapoya region, 309; on Guaraní attacks, 269; as influence on viceregal chronicle genre, 26, 350–351; on Pachacuti Inka Yupan-

380  THE INKA EMPIRE

qui, 268; and Puquina, 43; on tocapu design, 212n16; on Viracocha Inka, 280 Schjellerup, Inge, 15, 26 scribes for natives, and Quechua, 23 Seki, Yuji, 357 Selva Alegre site, 318 selva baja, 307 settlements: of Caranqui-Cayambe, 330; of Chachapoya region, 309–310; of Chancas, 72, 74, 85; of Collas, 71–72; of Cuzco region, 74–77, 78; of Pasto, 331; pre-Inka settlement patterns of, 84–85; and provincial administration, 295; resettlement campaigns, 89, 93, 97, 103, 107, 113, 114; types of, 16, 74, 215, 227–228; of Wanka ethnic group, 71; of Wari, 74, 75. See also administrative centers; architecture; royal estates Sherbondy, Jeanette E., 139 Shimada, Izumi, 293, 296, 300–301n6 Shinoda, Ken-ichi, 8 Sicán site, 61 Silverblatt, Irene, 121–122 Smit, Douglas, 6, 8, 9 Smith, Adam, 115n1 Smith, Michael E., 271, 281 social position, and economic relationships, 97, 101, 102, 113, 114 solar cycles, 122–123, 126, 127, 133, 138, 139, 144n2 Sora people, 238 Spanish conquest: and Chachapoya region, 311, 320; and dehistoricization of Inkas, 351, 354–357, 358; and economic policies, 97; and end of Inka Empire, 2, 5; and historicization of Inkas, 348–352, 354, 358, 358n1, 359n5; and Inka administrative strategies, 149–150; Inka intermarriage with Spanish, 32, 347; Inka responses to, 16, 26, 125, 150, 245, 247, 325, 338–339, 351; legitimacy claims, 211; and Francisco Pizarro’s over­throw of Inka Empire, 1; and Quechua, 45; and re-historicized Inkas, 351, 352–354, 358; and royal estates, 99; and royal ordinances, 349, 358n2; and symbolism in textiles, 17, 207, 350; and written records, 23, 31, 35 Spanish language, as minority language, 23 Spondylus shell: figurines, 203, 204, 212n5; pendants, 202, 204 Spurling, Geoffrey, 299 Squier, E. George, 221, 227, 253 Stanish, Charles, 71 state formation: anthropological models of, 67, 69, 78. See also Inka state formation Stewart, Ross E., 162 stone and stone objects: box recovered in Bolivia, 211, 211; conopa (receptacle for offering), 165, 166; engraved boulders at Posic, 317, 318; engraved stone stelae at Pukarumi, 314– 315, 315; imperial styles of, 110, 191, 276, 311, 312, 315–317, 315, 316, 335; intihuatana at Posic, 316, 317, 320; sacredness of, 224–225; scribing method, 225, 225; stone images of Huánuco Pampa site, 167; stonework of built structures, 185–186, 223, 224–225, 224, 230, 244, 259; textiles stored in, 211, 211 storehouses and storage facilities: architecture of, 221; and Casca­rilla Wasi, 318; in Cochabamba, 314; and economic policies, 112, 113; and khipu registers, 137; and labor obligations, 153; of Milliraya, 206; of Ollantaytambo, 235, 236; and

Peru, north coast of, 289; and roads, 90; and royal estates, 235; and state farms, 109; and tampus, 86, 87 Sucre, José Antonio de, 205 sumptuary laws, Inka elite exempt from, 87 sun, and cosmological beliefs, 14 suni zone, characteristics of, 100, 100, 215, 216 suntor uaci (round building), 221, 221 suspension bridges: construction format of, 12, 227; Guaman Poma’s illustration of, 33; and imperial infrastructure, 86, 215; reconstruction of, 227, 227; and roads, 216; and transport, 113 symbolic representation, and agricultural technology, 121 Tambillo de Zaña: plan of, 291; as tampu, 293 Tambo Colorado: adobes of, 225; color bands on wall, 222, 223, 223; plaza and main architectural compound, 90; plaza of, 295; and trapezoidal forms, 169 Tambokancha-Tumibamba site, 237 Tambo Real: plan of, 292; pottery workshops of, 294, 297, 298; as tampu, 293 Tambos, 241, 272 Tampu Canaan site, 317 Tampu Chuquisita site, 317 Tampu Eje site, 317 Tampu Quijos Llacta site, 318 tampu real (royal inn), Cochabamba as, 311 tampus (way stations): archaeology of, 89, 90; in Chachapoya region, 314, 315, 317, 318; construction of, 93, 227, 228, 230; and mit’a, 288; and Peru, north coast of, 293; as storehouses, 86, 87 Tamputoco, 348 tapia (rammed-earth construction), 225, 226 Tarma, as administrative center, 190 Tawantinsuyu (realm of four parts): administration of, 151–152; Cieza de León on, 25; colonial narratives of, 84; Colonial pictorial representation of, 172–173, 173; conceptual organization of, 172, 265; and ethnic power bases, 27; geometrical organization of, 175; Inka as name for supreme ruler of, 16; lack of chronicles from, 23; maps of, 172, 266; military narrative of, 25; as multiethnic and centralized empire, 26; as name for Inka Empire, 1, 151; Roman Empire compared to, 170; translation of, 172. See also Inka Empire taxation system: and economic policies, 97; and labor taxes, 99, 102–103, 112, 113, 115 Taylor, Gerald, 193n17 Tello, Julio, 230n3 Temple of the Sacrificed Women, 205 temples, built at prestigious pre- and non-Inka ceremonial sites, 13 terraces. See agricultural terraces textiles: aesthetics of, 197, 207, 212; Andean antecedent traditions, 197; and camay, 192n16; checkerboard tunic design, 170, 203, 205, 218; Chimú-style, 299; of Colonial period, 17, 208–209, 208, 209, 211–212; color palette of, 197, 200; contextual analysis of, 12, 13, 212; and cumbi cloth, 110, 181–182, 201, 206–207, 212n3, 352; as currency, 112; and dressed miniature figurines, 202, 202, 203–204, 204, 212n5, 295; dyes and colorants, 200; garment design layout, 197,

INDEX  381

202–203, 205, 207, 208, 211; geometric images on, 165, 166, 169, 170, 171, 181–182, 183, 197, 208; as gifts, 182–183, 191, 201; and huacas, 211; imperial purposes for, 13, 110; Inka eight-pointed star design, 206; and khipus, 212n11; and localInka interaction, 205–207, 206; long-distance exchange of, 114; and mantles, 204, 205, 206, 209, 210, 211, 212n6; and manufacturing processes, 206; and mascapaycha, 207; nonelite textiles, 199; north coast style of, 300n4; preparation of raw materials, 200; preservation of, 151, 203, 205, 207, 211; production of, 97, 107, 110, 200, 206, 297, 300; production of distinct qualities of products, 102; and quality of weaving, 197, 201, 202, 206, 207; and re-historicization of Inkas, 352– 353; and religious, political, historical, and social concepts, 165; and ritual performance, 13, 112, 170, 192n7, 203–205; social, political, and religious functions, 200; studies of, 191; tapestry-weaving technique, 197–198, 199, 200, 201, 207, 212; warp-patterned weaving traditions, 197, 198–199, 200, 201; weft-patterned weaving traditions, 197, 198, 199, 201; women’s garments, 199, 202, 203–205, 206, 212n6; written records on, 201, 202–203, 204, 206, 207–209, 211, 212. See also khipus; tunic(s) Third Council of Lima (1582–1583), 29, 41, 193n17 three-step colonization model, 56 Thupa Inka, 220, 227, 228 tianas (wooden seats), 175, 178 Tillman, Tim, 143 tinku, 186–188, 193n20 Tipón, waterways and canals of, 186, 186 Tiquischullpa: excavations of house foundations, 273–275, 274, 275; radiocarbon samples from, 273 Titu Cusi Yupanqui (Diego de Castro), 32 Tiwanaku (Tiahuanaco): architecture of, 243; Aymara attributed to, 42; ceramic portrait vessels, 8, 277, 278; disintegration of, 48, 49, 70, 71, 72, 74, 271–272; establishment of, 84–85; iconography of, 279; and Inka origins, 57, 185, 199, 200; and Inkas’ religious and cultural origins, 185–186; and Inka stylistic continuity, 265, 277, 279; oracle of, 190; Pachacuti Inka Yupanqui at, 185–186, 267; Puquina of, 44, 47–48; sculptures of, 178; standing sculpture of figure holding quero, 178, 179; stone-carved monuments of, 197; territory attained by, 44; textiles of, 199, 200; Wari people distinguished from, 63 tocapu designs: as abstract motif, 182; and aesthetic principles, 187; and chullpas, 183; and Cuzco plaza, 174; derivation and meaning of, 209, 212n16; and male tunics (uncus), 165, 166, 169, 172, 181, 184, 203, 208–209, 209; Pachacuti Yamqui’s drawing of, 183, 185; and queros, 209; studies of, 191; and women’s mantles, 209, 210, 211 tocricoc (royal district governor), 33, 152 tolas (earthen mounds), 329–330, 329, 339 Toledo, Francisco de, 26, 29, 32, 207, 350–351, 358–359n3 Tomebamba, 326, 337 Topa Inka: conquests of, 266, 267, 268, 280, 326, 334; royal estates of, 235, 237, 237, 238; and verification of successive kings of Inka state, 272, 351 Topa Ynga Yupanqui, 33 toponymy, 7, 43, 45, 46, 47, 252 Torero, Alfredo, 49 Tosi, Joseph, 131

transport: and economic policies, 112; and labor tax, 102; and llamas, 108, 112; and road system, 113 Trawick, Paul, 135 Tschauner, Hartmut, 296 Túcume site, 203, 293–294 Tulipe site, 339 tunic(s): capac uncu, 207; Cobo’s description of, 202; and Colonial period, 208, 208, 209, 211, 211; and dressed figurines, 203; Dumbarton Oaks Inka tunic (uncu), 165, 166, 169; and European motifs, 208, 208, 209; male tunic (uncu) with butterfly design, 208, 208; male tunic (uncu) with lions and double-headed crowned eagles, 208; male tunic (uncu) with tocapu design(s), 165, 166, 169, 181; male tunic (uncu) with tocapu and feline pelt design Lake Titicaca, 208, 209, 211; male tunic (uncu) with waistband (chumpi) of diamond tocapu shape, 183, 184; military uncu with checkerboard design, 170, 171, 203; miniature tunic with staff bearers, Wari style, 197, 199; mummy with Inka checkerboard tunic, 202, 203; and nobility status, 207; regional uncu with Inka-style designs, 206; and Spanish conquest, 207–208; standardization of, 203, 205, 300; and tocapu designs, 165, 166, 169, 172, 181, 184, 203, 208–209, 209; tunic (Inka?) with brown and white checkered design with stripes, 206; white Inka tunic with diamond waistband, 197, 198, 203; women’s garments compared to, 204 Tupac Amaru I, 32, 351, 353 Tupac Amaru II, Jose Gabriel Condorcanqui, 358 Tupac Inka Yupanqui (Inka ruler): and Cochabamba, 311; conquests of, 307, 309, 310; descendants of, 349; and labor obligations, 107; and Quechua, 50, 51n1; Quechua as administrative language of, 7; succession of, 86; uncu of, 183 Tupa Inca, 32 Turumayo (Inka captain), 269 Uclucana, Francisco, 353–354 Uhle, Max, 49, 205, 223, 225 uncu. See male tunic (uncu) universal order, and cosmological beliefs, 14 Upper Cuzco, ritual landscape of, 252 Upper Mantaro Archaeological Research Project (UMARP), 70, 71 urban areas: and compulsory urbanism, 91; DNA analysis compared with rural areas, 60–61 Urco, possible suntor uaci, 221, 221 Uro language: and diaspora, 48; and historical correlations, 47; survival of, 42 Uro people, 42, 47 Urton, Gary, 11–12, 144n11 Urubamba River valley: agricultural terraces of, 110; isometric view of, 4; map of archaeological sites in, 58; royal estates of, 234, 235, 253; as Sacred Valley of the Inkas, 14 usnu platforms, 290, 294, 311, 314, 315, 320 Valera, Blas, 31, 307 Vásquez de Espinosa, 307 verticality, as economic practice, 9, 10, 11 viceroyalty: and historicization of Inkas, 350–351; Puquina recognized by, 42; studies of Inka Empire, 26, 29

382  THE INKA EMPIRE

vicuñas, 197, 200 Vilcabamba region: forested lands of, 241; Inkas battling Spanish from, 32, 351, 353; and royal estates, 245 Vilcanota shrine, 141 Villac Umu, as chief priest, 152 Villa Hermosa, 265 Viracocha (supreme creator deity), 178, 187, 191, 200, 212n16, 259 Viracocha Inka (Inka ruler): chiefdom of, 267; descendants of, 349; and Lake Titicaca, 271; royal estate of, 235, 237, 237; and traditional list of Inka rulers, 272, 280 Viracocha temple, 88, 224 Virgin of the Ascension, 141 visitas (field surveys): and khipus, 150, 151; purpose of, 26–27, 28, 150, 151, 350–351; and textiles, 207 visual symbolism, of Inka culture, 5 Vitupue, 268 von Hagen, Victor Wolfgang, 265 von Humboldt, Alexander, 217, 218 Wachtel, Nathan, 150 waje waje, as balanced reciprocity, 101 Wanka ethnic group: archaeological studies of, 70, 71, 74, 77; and Chankas, 72 Wañuymarca, 126–127, 131 Wari (Huari) civilization: and Aymara language, 44, 49; collapse of, 50, 70, 74, 75, 272; establishment of, 63, 84–85; and Inka origins, 199; Pikillacta as administrative center of, 49, 74, 75; and Quechua, 49; textiles of, 197, 199, 199, 200 Wari sites, mitochondrial DNA analysis of, 8, 61, 64 Wari Willka, resources of, 115n3 Wata site, mitochondrial DNA analysis of, 8 water: and cosmological beliefs, 14, 115, 186; and fountains, 217; and Pisac site, 255, 259; and ritual performances, 186–189, 251; and tactile experiences of sacred landscapes, 13, 217 water management: and agricultural production, 135–136; and hydraulic engineering, 217; and manipulated water systems, 13, 215, 217; and provincial administration, 316, 337; and royal estates, 238, 244. See also canals; irrigation wawqi (brother images), 112 wayllqa, 136 way stations. See tampus (way stations) Wedin, Åke, 230n1, 266 Wenner-Gren Foundation, 2 white Inka tunic with diamond waistband, 197, 198, 203 Wiener, Charles, 253 Winterhalder, B., 132, 144n6 women: “chosen” for spinning and weaving, 201; and female exogamy, 330; garments of, 199, 202, 203–205, 204, 205, 206, 209, 210, 211, 212n6; as hechiceras, 355–356, 357, 359n8;

marriage to provincial leaders, 267; marriage to Spanish administrators, 211; and representations of Inka rulers, 348; as sacrificial victims, 250 Women of the Sun, guards for, 102 Wright, Ken, 125, 129, 134, 135, 136 written records: and administrative practices, 83; assessment of, 5; and Catholic clergy as ethnographers, 25–26, 28–29, 31–32; of Chachapoya region, 307, 309; and cultural reconstructions, 6; ethnocentric biases of, 1; and Hatunmarca, 78n2; and historicization of Inkas, 351–352; and imperial infrastructures, 83; and indigenous informants, 1, 39, 45, 67, 83, 84, 126, 150, 247–248, 259, 266, 307, 351; and Inka origins, 67, 68, 69, 86; and interethnic working misunderstandings, 24, 247; on Lake Titicaca basin, 71, 72; of metal art, 170; and military and maritime narrative, 24–25; on military service, 170; and people living under Inka rule, 26–28; and preInka stage, 85–86; primary sources on Inkas, 23–24, 247; on provincial administration, 84, 89, 93, 150; reliability of, 6, 68, 69, 74, 77, 85, 150, 247, 307, 347, 348; Spanish administrators as imperial ethnographers, 25–26; and Spanish conquest, 23, 24 Yaguarcocha, 337 Yaku Wilka (Sebastián), 25 yanacunas (hereditary retainers): and economic policies, 103; mitimaes transformed into, 10; and provincial administration, 89, 296; and royal estates, 234; and Spanish conquest, 347; status of, 14, 234 Yanantin (mountain), 229, 229 Yasca (Inka captain), 269 Yavi Chico Polychrome, 114 yayanq, as Inka elite, 83–84 Ylapa (god of lightning), 203 Yucay (royal estate of Huayna Capac): agricultural terraces of, 235, 235, 238; architecture of, 237; function of, 237; labor force of, 238, 242; land reclamation in, 11, 238, 239; and landscape modification, 238, 239; relationship to other estates, 242 Yumbos, 338, 339 yungas zones, characteristics of, 99, 100, 215, 216 Zapata, Julinho, 237 Zárate, Agustín de, 45, 108 Zhou Dynasty, 144n12 Zopozopagua, 338 Zuidema, Reiner Tom: on Ayarmaca people, 125; on ceque system, 139, 141, 142; on Cuzco, 252; and Dutch structuralism, 247; on Inka elites, 83; on puma chupan, 191 Zuleta site, 329, 330