The Battle (Massacre) of Cajamarca, 1532. Spanish Crush the Inca, Securing Power in the Wealthiest Region of South America.

The brutal massacre of the Incan warriors and the capture of their god-king cemented Spanish dominance over Peru, the richest prize in South America, a land dripping with gold and silver, now firmly under Spanish control.

Cajamarca. November 16, 1532.
Incan Forces: ~ 6,000 Warriors.
Spanish Forces: ~ 100 Infantry and 67 Cavalry.

Additional Reading and Research:

• Innes, Hammond. The Conquistadors.
• Means, Phillip. The Fall of the Inca Empire and the Spanish Rule in Peru, 1530 - 1780.
• Richman, Irving. Adventurers of New Spain: The Spanish Conquerors.
• Cieza de Leon, Pedro de. The Incas.

Some Historical Notes:

1. Atahualpa’s Alleged Massacre of His Brothers: While Spanish sources, particularly chroniclers like Pedro Cieza de León and Francisco de Jerez, assert that Atahualpa killed many of his brothers, the exact scale of this massacre is debated. The true number is uncertain, and Incan sources are silent or conflicting. 
2. Huascar’s Death: It's true that Atahualpa ordered Huascar's execution during his imprisonment, likely after hearing about the Spanish. The exact timing of Huascar’s death relative to the Spanish capture of Atahualpa varies in different accounts.
3. The Capture of Atahualpa and the Battle at Cajamarca: The massacre at Cajamarca wasn’t a full-scale “battle” by most military definitions. As I said, it was more of a calculated ambush where the Incas were taken completely by surprise. Atahualpa had come unarmed, believing the meeting to be diplomatic in nature.
4. The Ransom and Atahualpa’s Execution: Atahualpa did indeed offer to fill a room with gold and silver as his ransom, and the Spanish accepted this offer. The room, known as the “Ransom Room,” was filled with vast quantities of gold and silver. Pizarro and his men feared that releasing Atahualpa would allow him to regroup and lead an uprising. Hence, the execution.
5. Pizarro’s Governance and Rivalry with Almagro: Pizarro’s conflict with Diego de Almagro over the control of Cuzco is an essential aspect of post-conquest Spanish infighting. The territory division between Pizarro and Almagro, ordered by the Spanish Crown, created significant tensions, as both wanted control over Cuzco. It’s worth pointing out that Almagro’s son, Diego de Almagro II, led the faction that assassinated Pizarro in 1541, not necessarily Almagro’s original followers.
6. Pizarro’s Assassination: Pizzaro's death was part of the long-standing feud with the Almagristas (followers of Diego de Almagro), led by Almagro’s son. They stormed Pizarro’s palace in Lima, where he was killed. This event is well-documented and is a pivotal moment in the consolidation of Spanish authority in Peru.
7. The Spanish Governor and Imperial Administration: Following Pizarro's assassination, Spain moved quickly to stabilize the region by appointing a royal governor. Viceroy Blasco Núñez Vela was the first royal official sent to Peru by the Spanish Crown to establish direct governance, ensuring control over the vast wealth of the region.
8. Comparison to the Aztec Conquest: The comparison to the Aztec conquest under Cortés is valid, particularly in how both civilizations saw their wealth extracted, their leadership dismantled, and their cultures suppressed. It’s important to note that the Inca resistance continued for years after Atahualpa’s death. The final remnants of the Inca state held out in the Vilcabamba region until 1572, when the last Inca ruler, Túpac Amaru, was executed by the Spanish.

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Transcript

Thanks for tuning into this episode of History's Greatest Battles. If you're not yet, please subscribe and share this podcast. 

Often in this season we have encountered battles fought at immense odds.., I’m reminded of odds of five to one, with Alexander the Great. We usually refer to numbers of soldiers on the field of battle, as it’s more or less a given that weapons technology is matched. True, Hannibal brought war elephants into the Italian peninsula, and the romans had an unmatched tactical organization, and these things absolutely play into the equation — but they are utterly swept over as advantages when considering the quantum leaps in weapons technology that the Spanish conquistadors wielded over the native empires in the new world. 

Yet, despite the absurd advantage — body armor, horses, gunpowder, battle strategy, etc… numbers of enemy troops still struck terror. Our protagonist today understood this fear his men had when they — a mere 100, stood against an army of roughly six thousand. He is reported to have said to them: prepare your hearts as a fortress, for there will be no other.

Let us now experience, the Battle of Cajamarca.

Welcome to History's Greatest Battles, Season 01, Episode 58: The Battle of Cajamarca, the 16th of November, 1532.

Incan Forces: roughly 6,000 warriors.
Spanish Forces: roughly 100 Infantry and 67 Cavalry.

The brutal massacre of the Incan warriors and the capture of their god-king cemented Spanish dominance over Peru, the richest prize in South America, a land  dripping with gold and silver, now firmly under Spanish control.

Francisco Pizarro stood among the iron-hearted conquistadors, warriors born from centuries of relentless bloodshed in Spain’s struggle between Christian and Moor, men who knew no peace and had no taste for it. In 1492, with the last Moorish stronghold crushed, Spain found itself at the cusp of an era of unrivaled power. Fortune struck swiftly when they backed Christopher Columbus, and his fateful landing across the ocean set the stage for Spain’s swift rise as the world's dominant force. Pizarro, once a soldier in Vasco Nuñez de Balboa’s march through Panama during the 1520s, returned from those ventures no wealthier than when he had set out, his hunger for fortune left unsatisfied, his ambition undiminished.

Rumors whispered of a land rich beyond reckoning to the south, and like every conquistador worth his steel, Pizarro was consumed by the tales of Cortés’ staggering triumph in Mexico. He forged a pact with three other hardened men, determined to seize the western coast of South America for themselves. At his side stood Diego de Almagro, a seasoned adventurer; Fernando Luque, the calculating vicar of Panama; and Panama’s governor Pedrarias Dávila. Together, these four men—already in their fifties—knew their time to carve out glory was running short. Age had begun to gnaw at their bones, and they knew the sands of opportunity were slipping away. If they were to claim their fortunes, it had to be now, or never.

In this venture, Pizarro stood as the warrior, ever the soldier; Almagro handled supplies, while Luque played the diplomat, weaving political alliances. The trio sealed a contract with Bartolomé Ruiz, a veteran ship captain, whose command of the seas would guide them along the uncharted South American coastline in search of riches. From 1524 to 1528, they endured a hellish trial of disease, starvation, and endless setbacks. Yet, driven by visions of untold wealth, they pressed forward, unyielding in their resolve. Ruiz proved the most fortunate, discovering rumors of an inland empire—a kingdom of legend said to be drowning in gold.

Almagro’s ambitions tugged him northward, and he hesitated to throw his full weight behind Pizarro’s dreams. Left without sufficient men or arms, Pizarro sailed back to Spain, determined to find the support he needed. In Spain, Pizarro secured only a handful of backers, but his four brothers—loyal to the last—pledged themselves to his cause, swelling his ranks with blood and iron. Returning to Panama in December 1531, Pizarro now led 180 battle-hardened men and thirty warhorses, setting his gaze southward, where conquest and destiny awaited.

In the spring of 1532, Pizarro’s expedition made landfall at Tumbez, along the coast of what is now Peru. There, they were reinforced by another 100 men and fifty horses, led by the fearsome Hernando de Soto. Following the example of Cortés in Mexico, Pizarro founded the settlement of San Miguel, a forward base from which he would launch his assault on the unknown empire that lay beyond the horizon. To the east, the Andes loomed, an unyielding wall of rock and ice. Beyond them, the vast and powerful Inca Empire waited, its riches legendary, its defenses formidable.

The Incas commanded an empire that spanned 2,700 miles, from the highlands of Ecuador down to the distant plains near modern Santiago, Chile—an empire that dwarfed anything the Spanish had encountered before. At its heart lay Cuzco, the sacred capital, a city of untold wealth and spiritual power. At the helm of this sprawling empire stood the Inca, both sovereign and deity—a ruler whose power transcended mere politics, commanding reverence as a living god. Much like Moctezuma of Mexico, the Inca wielded absolute authority over a patchwork of conquered peoples. Yet, unlike his Aztec counterpart, the Inca's control was brutally thorough. He enforced the use of the Incan language, Quichua, and drafted vanquished warriors into his ever-expanding military ranks. Similarly, the Inca ruled the spiritual realm. The people’s faith revolved around worship of the sun, and he stood as its earthly embodiment, the living bridge between the divine and the mortal.

Among the greatest of the Inca rulers was Huayna Capac, who subdued the once-mighty Quito of modern Ecuador, and under his iron rule, the empire’s infrastructure flourished. He oversaw the creation of a vast network of roads, a system built to move both armies and trade with brutal efficiency. When Huayna Capac died in 1527, his death left a fractured inheritance, as two sons vied to succeed him, setting the stage for a violent struggle for control. The legitimate heir, Huascar, who had taken the royal name “Cuzco, son of old Cuzco,” seized the throne and ruled from the empire's ancient capital. But Huascar’s claim was contested by his half-brother, Atahualpa, a son born to one of Huayna Capac’s concubines, herself the daughter of the conquered king of Quito.

When Huayna Capac drew his last breath in Quito, it was Atahualpa, his favored son, and the choice of many military leaders, who stood at his side. Huascar, though, was the rightful heir, and when his father perished, he wasted no time in claiming the throne from the administrative stronghold of Cuzco. Whether their father had intended a shared rule remains a mystery, but it didn’t matter—war erupted between them with the inevitability of thunder following lightning. Atahualpa seized the advantage swiftly. His generals crushed Huascar’s forces and threw him into chains within the sacred temple of Cuzco by the spring of 1532, sealing his fate in the shadows of his ancestral capital.

While Cuzco erupted in violence, Atahualpa, ever the calculating strategist, held command of his reserve forces 600 miles away in the northern city of Cajamarca, carefully positioning himself for the final strike. The records we have come solely from the Spanish, and they do not spare Atahualpa in their telling, portraying him as a figure drenched in blood. According to these accounts, Atahualpa butchered nearly 200 of his father’s sons, leaving only Huascar alive, though no one truly knows why he spared him. With Huascar languishing in chains, Atahualpa allegedly exterminated every member of his brother’s family, ensuring no rival claimant would ever challenge his reign.

The true scale of this massacre remains uncertain, but one fact stands beyond dispute: as Atahualpa consolidated power, Pizarro’s men were landing just 250 miles to the north, building the town of San Miguel and setting the stage for a fateful collision. Word of the Spaniards’ arrival reached Atahualpa in Cajamarca, but rather than rush back to the capital, he chose to remain entrenched, confident that his power would hold. In September 1532, Pizarro’s force set out from San Miguel, beginning their grueling ascent into the unforgiving Andes. Though they marched near the equator, the mountains offered no warmth—cold winds bit at them, and the rains turned the path to misery.

As Pizarro’s men struggled onward, they were met by two separate delegations from Atahualpa, each bearing gifts. Among the treasures was gold, and the sight of it ignited the Spaniards' morale, promising that the true wealth of the empire lay just ahead. By November 15, Pizarro’s men crossed a jagged mountain pass and gazed down upon Cajamarca. They entered the town that same day, only to find it eerily deserted—an empty shell awaiting its players. The Spaniards marveled at Cajamarca, not only for its grand stone structures but also for the sprawling sea of tents beyond its borders, where Atahualpa’s army lay encamped, a silent threat hovering over the town.

At Cajamarca’s heart was a triangular plaza, enclosed by vast halls, likely used for governing—a stage built for the encounter that was now inevitable. Above the plaza stood a stone fort, watching over the town like a sentinel. Every building, whether public or private, was carved from enormous stones, a testament to the might of the empire that built them. High above the town, a second fort dominated the hillside, its triangular shape seemingly carved from the very bones of the earth, offering the Incas an impenetrable stronghold—if only they knew its value. That Atahualpa willingly ceded such a fortress to Pizarro’s men, armed as they were with the thunderous power of firearms, made one thing clear—he had no conception of the force he was facing.

After hours of waiting in the ghostly stillness of Cajamarca, with no word from the Incan camp, Pizarro dispatched Hernando de Soto, accompanied by twenty mounted soldiers, to parley with Atahualpa directly. Pizarro climbed to the fort’s highest point, surveying the staggering expanse of the Incan army below. Unnerved by its sheer size, he quickly sent his brother Hernando and twenty more cavalrymen to join de Soto. The Spaniards rode through the maze of tents unchallenged, their horses’ hooves pounding the earth until they reached the grand pavilion where Atahualpa sat in regal silence, awaiting them.

Atahualpa had been warned that these strangers commanded beasts unknown in his realm—horses, creatures never before seen in the Americas. Yet, if their presence stirred any divine suspicion in him, he revealed none of it. Calm and unshaken, he met the Spaniards and their steeds without a flicker of fear. The Spaniards offered Atahualpa an invitation to meet Pizarro in Cajamarca. The response came, not from the Inca himself, but from an aide—a day of fasting was underway, and Atahualpa would grace them with his presence the following day. Atahualpa’s demeanor left no doubt—he was a man who considered himself divine, a ruler who granted no favors and saw these Spaniards as little more than another band of inferior subjects beneath his notice. Yet, even a ruler of gods could not entirely ignore the presence of forty armored men, their gleaming steel a stark contrast to anything his empire had known.

That night, the Spanish prepared for the next day’s encounter. Pizarro, having studied Cortés’ swift capture of Montezuma, knew precisely what must be done—he would seize the Inca, and with him, control over an empire. The Spaniards could feel the tension in the very air they breathed. They were a tiny band of foreign invaders, encircled by thousands of Incan warriors, trapped in a land far beyond the reach of any possible reinforcement. Every man knew: failure here meant death, alone and forgotten. Pizarro, ever the hardened commander, rose to the moment. He moved through his men like a general born for chaos, steadying their nerves, reminding them of the riches that awaited—and the iron will required to claim them.

At dawn, Pizarro positioned his troops with the precision of a man well-versed in the art of ambush. His soldiers took their places within the great halls that flanked the plaza, silent and ready, their eyes fixed on the empty streets, waiting for Atahualpa to arrive. Hours passed, and still, no sign of the Inca. The Spaniards stood tense, nerves fraying as the sun climbed higher. Then, a stirring—Atahualpa’s camp had come alive. Whether the delay had been a council of war or mere arrogance, no one could say. But the time had come. With his finest generals tied down in Cuzco, watching over his imprisoned brother, Atahualpa had to rely on lesser minds. What advice they whispered in his ear as the day unfolded, we can only guess.

Atahualpa's forces moved in disciplined ranks, 6,000 men marching in a ceremonial procession. At their center, the Inca was carried aloft on a palanquin, a vision of regal indifference as his empire’s fate marched beside him. Warriors lined the path for four long miles, a living wall of muscle and steel, their presence a show of power—one meant to intimidate any would-be challengers. As Atahualpa neared Cajamarca’s gates, the town remained eerily silent. There was no movement, no sound. The Spaniards waited in the shadows, invisible to their prey.

Half a mile from the town, the procession halted. Atahualpa, not one to rush at the whims of outsiders, sent a messenger to Pizarro, declaring that he would grace them with his presence tomorrow, not today. Pizarro’s men were already wound tight, their nerves stretched thin by the long hours in hiding, fingers itching for battle. Another night spent waiting in this deadly silence could break them. Pizarro knew it was now or never. Pizarro sent back word, urging the Inca to proceed into the town—he had food, entertainment, and more waiting for him. The bait was set.

Perhaps there was more in that message than an invitation—something sharper, something laced with insult. Whatever it contained, it was enough to prod the god-king into action. As the day began to wane, Atahualpa's procession resumed its march. The Inca, confident and unhurried, moved toward the heart of Cajamarca, unaware of the deadly trap awaiting him. Though Atahualpa had made it clear that he would enter Cajamarca armed, as the Spaniards had done in his camp, his men arrived unarmed—a sign of protocol, or perhaps of his towering arrogance. Atahualpa followed the customs of his people—enemy leaders were expected to meet unarmed before any clash of forces. He saw no reason to abandon that tradition now.

The procession flowed into Cajamarca’s plaza like a river splitting in two, the columns parting to allow Atahualpa’s palanquin to take its place at the center of the stage. The plaza remained deathly still until a single figure emerged—Father Valverde, a Catholic priest, stepping forward into the silence. Through the lips of an interpreter, Valverde, a Dominican friar, began his sermon, speaking of Christ, of God, and of the salvation that the Spanish king could offer. It was the language of conquest cloaked in faith. Atahualpa listened in cold silence at first, but soon his composure darkened. He grasped the priest’s meaning—this foreigner was not merely preaching. He was challenging the very heart of Atahualpa’s divinity, demanding he kneel to a distant king and an alien god.

Without a word, Atahualpa seized the Bible from Valverde, snapped its clasp open, and peered inside. What he saw disgusted him. With a flick of his wrist, he cast it to the ground as if discarding a useless trinket. This was a man who had clawed his way to the throne through war and blood. He would not surrender it on the command of some priest serving a distant monarch he had never heard of. Valverde, stunned and humiliated, hastily retrieved the fallen Bible and fled, leaving the plaza to its inevitable reckoning. The moment the priest was out of the line of fire, Pizarro gave the signal. His brother Hernando relayed it swiftly to Pedro de Candia, stationed near the fort, where two small cannon waited, poised like wolves ready to pounce.

The cannons roared to life, their shots tearing through the tightly packed ranks of Incan warriors. Almost immediately, three columns of mounted cavalry erupted from the shadows of the surrounding halls, charging with lethal speed. Some of the Incan warriors, it is said, carried slings or javelins concealed beneath their tunics, but such weapons were useless against the onslaught of armored European cavalry thundering toward them. Lances and swords slashed through flesh and bone with brutal efficiency, cutting down nearly every Incan warrior in the plaza. Those few who survived did so by sheer luck and swift retreat. What unfolded at Cajamarca was no battle—it was a massacre, a ruthless slaughter that left the plaza awash in blood.

Pizarro himself waded through the carnage, his eyes locked on the palanquin. Atahualpa had to be taken alive—without him, the empire could not be subdued. In the chaos, Pizarro received the only wound suffered by a Spaniard that day—a sword slash, not from an enemy, but from one of his own men, lost in the frenzy of battle. No other native warrior left that plaza alive. Atahualpa alone was spared the slaughter. Despite the screams and thunder of battle, the thousands of Incan warriors camped outside the town did nothing. They stood idle, motionless, as their emperor was dragged from his palanquin and his loyal soldiers were butchered. Not a hand was raised to save him.

By dawn, Atahualpa’s once-formidable army had either remained in place or quietly melted away, many of them conscripts with no loyalty to their captured god-king. But within his prison, the Inca’s mind was hard at work, scheming for his release, his will unbroken by the iron grip of his captors. Knowing the Spanish lust for gold, Atahualpa made his move. He offered them a ransom fit for kings—a room 17 by 22 feet, stacked to the ceiling with gold as high as he could reach, and a second, smaller room filled twice over with silver. It was a sum that would have made kings pause, and for the Spanish, it was an irresistible temptation. Pizarro, no stranger to greed, agreed. Such a ransom could not be refused.

Swiftly, Atahualpa dispatched his messengers across the vast Inca Empire, commanding that the gold be gathered—2,600 cubic feet of it, an unimaginable fortune, now summoned by his will. And soon, the treasure began to arrive. One piece after another, the Spanish saw the fruits of their conquest materializing before their eyes, their greed now fully awakened. Yet for all his cunning, Atahualpa underestimated Pizarro. The Spanish commander had already sent Hernando de Soto to Cuzco, where Huascar languished as a prisoner. Upon hearing of Atahualpa’s capture, Huascar sent word to the Spanish, offering to join forces with them against his brother.

Huascar dangled before the Spanish a tantalizing promise—he knew where his father’s hidden treasure lay, far beyond the scraps Atahualpa could plunder from temples and shrines. He offered the Spaniards not just gold, but knowledge of secret wealth. Just as Atahualpa’s ransom neared fulfillment, Pizarro dropped a bombshell. Huascar had offered to double the ransom. Atahualpa’s cunning eyes saw through the trap—his brother’s life now threatened his own. Even in captivity, Atahualpa’s reach remained long. He sent secret orders to his generals in Cuzco, and before the Spanish could act, Huascar was dead, murdered on his brother’s command. The only true rival to Atahualpa was now buried beneath the blood-soaked soil of his empire.

The killing of Huascar enraged Pizarro. The Inca had outmaneuvered him, and now the Spanish leader faced a dilemma: what to do with the cunning emperor in his grasp? Though Pizarro had pledged Atahualpa his freedom in exchange for the ransom, he had no intention of keeping that promise. Once the gold was in Spanish hands, Pizarro charged the Inca with Huascar’s murder—a convenient excuse for betrayal. The trial was a mere formality, the outcome decided before it began. Atahualpa was swiftly convicted, his fate sealed by the very men who coveted his empire. The sentence was death by fire, the execution reserved for heathens. But in a final twist of fate, Atahualpa, unwilling to die in flames, accepted the foreign religion at the last moment. His conversion spared him the stake—he was strangled instead, his life snuffed out with cold efficiency.

With Atahualpa dead, Pizarro sought to install a puppet on the throne. He found one among Atahualpa’s remaining brothers—Toparca, spared from his sibling’s bloodlust, now crowned as the new Inca, a hollow figurehead. Yet even this plan fell apart. On the road to Cuzco, Toparca died suddenly, his fragile hold on power snuffed out before it began. The throne of the Inca remained in chaos. As Pizarro’s army marched toward Cuzco, another figure emerged from the shadows—Manco Inca, one of Huascar’s surviving brothers, ready to fill the power vacuum left by Atahualpa’s death.

Manco Inca, ever the pragmatist, swore loyalty to Pizarro, securing his place on the throne as a willing collaborator. For now, he would bend the knee. But Manco Inca had no intention of being a puppet forever. By April 1536, he raised the banner of rebellion, gathering his forces to cast the Spanish invaders from his homeland. The conflict came to a head at the fortress of Sacsahuaman, just outside Cuzco. For a week, the Incas fought fiercely, but in the end, Hernando Pizarro’s forces crushed the uprising, leaving the proud fortress littered with the bodies of the fallen.

Meanwhile, Francisco Pizarro faced his own trial—his capital at Lima came under siege. But the flat plains around the city played to his cavalry’s strength, and the native warriors were swiftly cut down, their blood soaking the land they had hoped to reclaim. With the native threat beaten, Pizarro’s only remaining enemy was the man who had once been his closest ally: Diego de Almagro. The two former partners now eyed each other across the ashes of the Incan empire. The two men clashed bitterly over territory, their ambition turning them against one another in a feud as vicious as any they had fought against the Incas.

The stakes were high. King Charles V had granted Pizarro governance over 270 leagues south of the River Santiago, while Almagro held claim to 200 leagues further south. But the heart of the matter was Cuzco—the jewel of the empire. On April 6, 1538, they clashed in battle, two titans fighting for control of Incan society’s very center. Pizarro emerged victorious. Almagro, once a brother-in-arms, was now a prisoner in chains. Though Pizarro’s triumph was complete, his ruthlessness earned him bitter condemnation in Spain. But Pizarro’s enemies did not forget. On June 26, 1541, the followers of Almagro took their revenge, assassinating Pizarro, his blood spilling in the very city he had fought so hard to conquer.

In the aftermath of Pizarro’s death, the Spanish crown appointed a governor to bring order, and the machinery of empire began its inexorable work in the newly conquered lands. Yet, no matter whose banner flew over the empire, the fate of the Inca people remained unchanged. They now lived under the iron heel of foreign rule, their glory extinguished. Like their Aztec counterparts in Mexico, the Incas watched helplessly as their culture was torn away piece by piece. Their treasures were shipped across the seas to enrich distant lords, while their language and faith withered under the crushing weight of Spanish power.