Francisco Pizarro: The Gold, the Greed, and the Sword

Francisco Pizarro: this was a man whose life read like a particularly bloody adventure novel, one in which the pig herder ends up as governor, emperor-slayer, and eventual pincushion.

Start in Trujillo, Spain, sometime in the 1470s. Dates back then weren’t exactly chiselled in stone unless you were a pope or royalty. Pizarro was neither. In fact, he wasn’t even legitimate in the eyes of the Church, being the son of an infantry colonel and a woman who, let’s say, wasn’t invited to royal banquets. Raised in poverty and apparently allergic to literacy, young Francisco swapped books for pigs, and the classroom for mud. Honestly, if Disney ever needed a villainous counterpoint to Cinderella, he’d be a decent pitch.

So how does one go from swineherd to sword-wielding conquistador? You get on a boat. In 1502, he sailed for the New World, joining that Spanish tradition of boarding a ship with more ambition than supplies. He made it to Hispaniola, which was just warming up to the idea of becoming a colonial mess. There, he did what every other Spaniard with a rusty helmet and a taste for loot was doing: trying not to die and hoping to stumble across gold.

A decade later, he found himself in Panama, where he hooked up with Vasco Núñez de Balboa, the man who spotted the Pacific Ocean and decided it looked like a good place to misbehave. Pizarro followed, marched, and helped Balboa on his trans-isthmus jaunt. In a classic move that would define his career, he later turned on Balboa and had him arrested. Career tip from Francisco Pizarro: if you want to get ahead, throw your mentor under the horse cart.

By 1524, he was dreaming of the south — specifically, a land of gold beyond the mountains, known in whispers as Peru. He joined forces with Diego de Almagro and Hernando de Luque, forming a trio that history now remembers as the worst business partnership since Blockbuster passed on buying Netflix. They mounted expeditions down the Pacific coast, which mostly consisted of shipwrecks, jungle rot, and awkward standoffs with locals who understandably weren’t thrilled to see them.

Twice they failed. But on the third attempt, he made it far enough south to see signs of the Inca Empire, which practically glittered. Pizarro returned to Spain in 1528 with a llama and a few trinkets, enough to dazzle the court of King Charles I. Impressing royalty with livestock is a lost art these days. Charles gave him the green light to conquer Peru, making him governor of the not-yet-conquered territory. Bureaucracy was so much more efficient when it involved swords.

In 1531, Pizarro returned to Peru with about 180 men, a couple of cannons, and an unshakeable sense of entitlement. The Inca Empire was in civil war, torn between two brothers, Atahualpa and Huáscar. Perfect timing, really. Like arriving at a family reunion just as the punches start flying. Pizarro and his men headed to Cajamarca, where Atahualpa had just won the civil war and was surrounded by thousands of soldiers.

Naturally, Francisco Pizarro invited the emperor to dinner. What could possibly go wrong? Atahualpa showed up with no weapons, just a royal entourage, and was greeted by a priest waving a Bible and Spanish soldiers hiding in ambush. Atahualpa was captured in a flurry of steel and horse hooves. If you’re wondering why the Incas didn’t see this coming, well, horses were new to them, and so were people who said “let’s talk” then drew swords.

What followed was capitalism at its darkest. Atahualpa, hoping to save his life, offered to fill a room with gold and another with silver. Pizarro, never one to decline a glittering bribe, accepted. Over the next few months, the Incas brought in tonnes of treasure: statues, goblets, jewellery, you name it. Historians estimate it was around 13,000 pounds of gold and 26,000 pounds of silver. That’s not a metaphor. That’s the actual weight.

Once it was all collected, Pizarro held a quick trial, declared Atahualpa guilty of plotting (because obviously), and had him executed. First by burning, then by garrotte, after Atahualpa agreed to convert to Christianity. Nothing says redemption like being strangled for Jesus.

With the emperor dead and the treasure split among the conquistadors, Francisco Pizarro set about cleaning up. He marched into Cuzco, installed a puppet ruler, and began reshaping the empire in the image of Spain, which mostly meant churches, taxes, and not asking the locals what they thought. In 1535, he founded Lima, calling it the City of Kings, though it really should’ve been the City of Opportunists.

Meanwhile, Almagro, the other half of the conquistador buddy film, felt he’d been stiffed on his share of the spoils. Tensions simmered. Lines were drawn. The two old friends turned into bitter rivals. In 1538, they clashed in battle. Pizarro won. Almagro was captured, tried, and executed. Just another former friend under the horse cart.

But what goes around, comes around. In 1541, Almagro’s son and a group of conspirators stormed Pizarro’s palace in Lima. The old conquistador, now around 65 and very much into retirement mode, drew his sword and managed to skewer two attackers before succumbing to a flurry of blades. So ended the life of the man who took down an empire with barely 200 men, a few lies, and a treasure chest’s worth of ruthlessness.

His body was buried, moved, lost, rediscovered, and reburied, because even in death, Francisco Pizarro couldn’t keep things simple. Today, you can visit his remains in the Cathedral of Lima, though it’s unclear whether you’re looking at Pizarro or one of history’s many identity mix-ups. DNA tests in the 1980s tried to sort it out, because nothing says modern science like solving colonial murder mysteries.

Pizarro’s legacy is as tangled as the jungle he hacked through. To some, he was a fearless explorer, a self-made man who carved out an empire with grit and steel. To others, he was a brutal opportunist, a destroyer of civilisations who traded human lives for shiny metal. Both are true. He was brave and reckless, clever and cruel, charming and treacherous. He could rally men through jungles and over mountains, then turn on them over gold. He outwitted emperors but couldn’t outlive revenge.

If there’s a moral here, it might be this: be careful who you conquer with. The gold will glitter, the greed will fester, and eventually, someone with a very sharp blade and a very old grudge will knock on your door. And they won’t be offering tea.