Diego de Almagro el Mozo

In the middle of 1537, the high peaks of the Andes oversaw a world in total fragmentation. The Inca Empire, once a marvel of administrative precision, lay shattered, its sovereign Atahualpa dead and his successor Manco Inca retreating into the emerald shadows of the Vilcabamba Valley. Yet, the tragedy of the Inca was now being compounded by a civil war among their conquerors. The Spanish, though growing in number to roughly 4,000, had split into venomous factions led by the business partners who had first dreamed of this gold-drenched nightmare: Francisco Pizarro and Diego de Almagro. The ruins of this civilization do not merely whisper of collapse; they recount a blood feud where European greed met indigenous resistance in a collision that would ultimately consume every primary actor in the drama. The Broken Partnership and the Battle of Las Salinas Diego de Almagro was a man defined by his scars and his bitterness. Ugly, resilient, and flamboyantly dressed, he felt systematically excluded from the spoils of empire by Francisco Pizarro. While Pizarro held the coastal city of Lima, Almagro occupied the highland capital of Cusco, holding Pizarro’s brothers, Hernando Pizarro and Gonzalo Pizarro, as hostages. The struggle boiled down to a legalistic dispute over which jurisdiction the city of Cusco belonged to—New Castile or New Toledo. However, in the brutal reality of the 16th-century frontier, legalism was merely a prelude to steel. Almagro made the fatal mistake of trusting the Pizarros' word; he released Hernando after a hollow promise of arbitration, losing his primary leverage. This gullibility led directly to the Battle of Las Salinas on April 6, 1538. It was a surreal spectacle: thousands of indigenous locals gathered on the hillsides like spectators at an amphitheater, cheering as the two Spanish armies prepared to slaughter one another. The battle was an anachronism, one of the last medieval engagements decided by cavalry charges and lances in a world rapidly turning toward gunpowder. Almagro’s lieutenant, the chivalry-obsessed Rodrigo Orgóñez, fought like a paladin of romance only to be unhorsed and executed by a common soldier who lacked any sense of knightly honor. Almagro himself, suffering from the advanced stages of syphilis and watching from a litter, was captured and later garroted in his cell. His head was held high in the square of Cusco, marking the end of the first generation of the feud, but ensuring that the next would be even more vicious. The Guerrilla King and the Fate of Cura Ocllo While the Spanish tore themselves apart, Manco Inca established a neo-Inca state in the jungle. He was no longer the puppet king the Spanish had hoped for; he had become a hardened guerrilla commander. From his hidden capital at Vilcabamba, he launched a campaign of fire and stone, rolling boulders onto Spanish columns and punishing tribes like the Chanca who had sided with the invaders. The Spanish pursuit of Manco was relentless but often hindered by their own lack of discipline. During one raid on the town of Vitcos, Spanish soldiers stopped to loot a golden image of the sun and abuse local priestesses, allowing Manco to slip away into the rainforest. Frustrated by Manco's evasiveness, Francisco Pizarro turned to a depravity that shocked even his own chroniclers. He captured Manco’s wife and sister, Cura Ocllo. When Manco refused to surrender in exchange for her, Pizarro ordered her stripped, beaten by Cañari auxiliaries, and shot to death with arrows. Her body was placed in a basket and floated down the river into the jungle, a gruesome message to her husband. This act of barbarism did not break Manco; it merely calcified his hatred. He remained a shadow in the forest, a constant reminder that while the Spanish might occupy the cities, they did not yet own the land. The Assassination of the Marquis By 1541, Francisco Pizarro was 63 years old and one of the wealthiest men in human history. Yet, he remained an enigma—an illiterate former pig-herder who cared little for fine wine, luxury, or even the gold he had spent a lifetime accumulating. He spent his days in an orange orchard, playing games for pennies with common soldiers. His complacency proved his undoing. The supporters of the late Almagro, known as the Almagristas, had found a new leader in Almagro's half-caste son, Diego de Almagro el Mozo. On June 26, 1541, as Pizarro was celebrating mass in his private residence in Lima, the conspirators burst through the doors. Despite his age, the Marquis fought with a sword and dagger, cutting down the first man to reach him. But the sheer weight of numbers overwhelmed him. A blade found his throat, and as he lay dying, he traced a cross in his own blood on the floor. A final, cruel blow from a water jar crushed his face, ending the life of the man who had masterminded the conquest. The man from Trujillo, who had achieved the impossible, died in a pile of his own mangled limbs, buried in haste behind a cathedral he had barely finished building. The Game of Quoits and the Fall of Vilcabamba The final act of the Inca resistance ended not with a grand battle, but with a treacherous game of quoits. Manco Inca, in a display of inexplicable naivety, had given refuge to several Almagrista fugitives in his jungle palace. He treated them as brothers, playing horseshoes with them in the afternoon sun. In 1544, these guests, hoping to win a pardon from the Spanish authorities, turned on their host. They stabbed Manco in the chest as his nine-year-old son, Titu Cusi, watched from the bushes. The assassins were quickly hunted down and burned alive by Manco's guards, but the damage was done. The indomitable patriot was gone. For a brief period, his sons maintained a fragile independence. Titu Cusi proved to be a skilled diplomat, flirting with Christianity and maintaining a jolly, non-confrontational relationship with the Spanish. Had he lived, Vilcabamba might have survived as a protected enclave. But his successor, Túpac Amaru, chose the path of defiance. He murdered Spanish envoys and retreated into isolation. This provoked the final Spanish intervention—a war of "fire and blood." In 1572, the last Inca was captured and brought to Cusco. Dressed in mourning velvet and riding a mule, he was led to the scaffold. As the executioner’s blade fell, the cathedral bells began a rhythmic toll that signaled the definitive end of an empire. The mountain of Potosí was already being hollowed out by forced laborers to fuel the global economy, and the Inca world had transitioned from a living civilization to a demographic disaster, leaving behind only the haunting echoes of a conquest that ended, as it began, in murder. The Mountain That Eats Men The true legacy of the conquest was not found in the golden coats of arms or the black velvet doublets of the Pizarros, but in the mines of Bolivia. The discovery of silver at Potosí in 1545 created a global economic shockwave that destabilized European currencies and funded the Spanish Habsburg wars. For the indigenous population, it was a death sentence. The mine became known as "the mountain that eats men," where hundreds of thousands died in the darkness of the shafts. The conquest was a demographic catastrophe; valleys that once held 40,000 people were reduced to 4,000 within a generation. The lesson of the Inca fall is a somber one: it is the story of how human ambition, when uncoupled from empathy, can dismantle the very world it seeks to possess, leaving nothing but a trail of silver and blood.