Pizarro still lies in Lima. At least they say it is he—the shriveled corpse in a glass coffin, scaled these four centuries, with a foot hacked off, a hand gone, a slash in its throat. For a few pesos, the monks of the cathedral will take you into the dusky chapel and gloat, while you stare, at the mummy-like remains in black vestments.* They will tell you, old hatred burning beneath their derision, that this shrunken carcass was once the Conqueror of Peru, the boisterous cattleman from...
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