The Gold Eaters (7 page)

“That way, men, lies Panama. Panama—and poverty.”

He turns to the south and strides across his line.

“This way lies risk—and riches. One ship will go north. The other south. Let each man choose. I choose Peru.”

Pilot Ruiz is first to join him. Not because he trusts the Commander—far from it—but because he believes most firmly that the golden land is there. He will not let the honour of finding it fall to another. Candía and Molina follow (even though Felipe has said
less about his homeland than Pizarro claims). Several more break from their fellows and shuffle, almost apologetically, across the line. All but a few are men who were on the
Santa Elena
when she met the trading vessel, men who not only have seen pieces of gold and silver produced from a strongbox but who saw in that strange ship, as big as their own, a sighting of Peru.

Pizarro waits in silence. No others come. With small nods he counts them. Only a dozen. Too few to fight. But enough to explore.

4

T
he
Santa Elena
runs fleeter than before, cleaving the waves with a hull newly scraped and tarred. And this time there's enough to eat on board, a share of the food from Panama.

Late one afternoon about a month out from Gallo Island, Waman sees a familiar smudge of land beneath the white crest of the highlands floating on the haze. That night he smells the World on the wind. In the morning he guides Pilot Ruiz up a mangroved channel, into the harbour from which he ran to sea. The caravel drops anchor, away from any freighters and the Empire's troopships.

So strange to be home, thinks Waman. And home so strange. On the rise are the buildings of Tumbes, layered streets and houses crowned by the great temple with its steep roof flashing golden in the sun. Only months ago he left this place, walked its streets, yet each month seems a year. Tumbes was never his city. But this is his land, his
country
—a notion new to him. The smells of home are overwhelming now: tarred ships, dunged fields, cooking fires, baked fish, steamed corn. And sounds. A crowd has gathered on beach and jetty and rooftops; above the din of voices drifts the music he most loves—flutes, drums, tambourines, and the breathy rasp of great pan-pipes as long as the men who play them.

Could anyone he knows be here? Only by chance. Little River is three days away and the
Santa Elena
could not have been sighted
until yesterday. Yet Waman cups his eyes and scans the onlookers until clothes and faces all begin to seem the same, till he doubts he can remember what his parents and his cousin even look like. Mother, Father, Tika, Grandfather . . . have they forgiven him? And will they know him after all he's done and seen? The Old One has dressed him in Spanish clothes, in a loose white shirt, green velvet cap, leather britches buttoned down the side. But it is more than a matter of clothing. Perhaps, Waman fears, the new growth in him contains too much of these barbarians. He knows them now. He can speak their tongue, if badly. He can even play a little of their music. A few he has come to regard as friends. Candía the Greek, Tomás the slave, Molina. How is that possible when he has also killed some of them, or tried to? It's as if he was some other youth back then when he last saw Tumbes, someone who shares his body and his boyhood but is no longer himself.

Waman or Felipe? First he received his grown-up name from his grandfather. Now he has become Felipe also, a name that has something to do with their god. A god perhaps as mighty as they say, for this Tius has given them many fine things. Yet also a cruel god, for he makes them suffer so. Waman has grown used to his Christian name, though it took him a long time to pronounce it. He only wishes they would call him that and nothing more. It is Felipillo he detests—Little Philip—as if he were still a child.

Waman is a man's name. Hawk. Nothing little about that.

He takes off his cap and waves it. He searches the crowd again. A few wave back, but not as if they know him.

Tomás comes up, sheepish, holding shackle and chain. “The Commander thinks you might be tempted by a swim.” Indeed. Waman hasn't changed so much he wouldn't run from the bearded ones at the first chance. Before sinking into the dank hold, he looks around once more at the painted houses, the busy streets, the
Emperor's great buildings—the stone bulk of the fortress, the gilded temple. His dread of what might happen next is as strong now as his joy at coming home.

Commander Pizarro casts a sour eye over his dozen men. Hotheads and rogues. Mere youngsters with nanny-goat beards. And these the best, the quickest: those bold enough to turn their backs on Panama and their eyes to Peru. His first move, he decides, is to send one man ashore with gifts for the ruler of the city: a red velvet cap, a Venetian goblet, a pair of trussed hogs. He picks Molina for this task. Not the most dependable fellow, but the most expendable.

Molina is gone for some hours. His shipmates wait uneasily on deck, Candía at the guns, a small brazier on hand to light the matchcords if need be. It is mid-afternoon before they see Molina shouting and waving from the beach, then wading out to the ship like a madman in a lather until chest deep in soupy water.

“Lower the tender,” Pizarro orders, “and fish out that fool before he drowns.”

Molina comes aboard like Neptune, trailing weed and foam, raving of the comeliness of the women, the friendliness of the men, the wealth of a “mosque” he has seen—adorned with gold, silver, precious stones.

Before he can be calmed and questioned thoroughly, there is movement on the water. A raft is punting out to the ship, a raft with a white awning and a man seated in its shade.

“Tomás,” Pizarro calls, “bring up Felipillo. Mind you put that heavy doublet on him, the one with the weights sewn in.”

Waman emerges from below, blinking in the light, sweating from sudden heat and heavy clothes. The Old One inspects him, checking the jacket is tightly fastened. “That stays on whenever you're on deck,” Pizarro warns. “You jump, you sink.”

The raft is alongside now, and Waman sees it is laden with
mouth-watering things from home: fruit, vegetables, a heap of roasted meat steaming on a salver. Under the canopy sits a high official of the Empire, wearing a tightly wound red turban, golden discs covering his ears, and a splendid tunic of many-coloured frets.

Accepting Pizarro's outstretched hand, the official climbs nimbly aboard the
Santa Elena
. He is in middle years, finely lined about the eyes, his chin furrowed and freshly tweezered; about the same height as the Old One, yet stockier, more strongly built, with the barrel chest of a highlander. The short haircut of the Empire's lords shows grey at his temples below the headcloth.

Candía keeps an arquebus trained on the visitor from the poop deck. Pizarro seems ill at ease, stroking his beard, probing an ear with his finger.

“Little Philip! Greet this Indian warmly. Welcome him aboard. Tell him I come to kiss the hands of his king. If he's the king himself, I'll kiss them now.”

When the official hears the boy—whom he took from his clothing to be one of the outlanders—addressing him in the Empire's language, surprise ripples the mask of his face. The ripple is instantly smoothed, the mask restored. He leans in closely to Waman.

“So you know their tongue?”

The interpreter nods, struggling to find voice before this nobleman, fighting a tightness in his chest at the first words from home he's heard in months.

“Good. You will tell me everything they say. Exactly as they say it. But everything I say, on the other hand, you will convey with the greatest courtesy their barbarous tongue allows. You will speak sweetly. If I ask when they'll be going back where they came from, you will say, for example, ‘How long will our esteemed visitors have the kindness to favour us with their presence.' Always like that.”

Waman does his best, unsure whom he fears more: the Old One
or this Emperor's man. He knows his Castilian is still flawed. And his Quechua leaves much to be desired, lacking the polish and crisp accent of this highland lord. Still, he speaks it better than most in Little River, because his mother and Tika, having come from the highlands, sometimes spoke it at home—especially when they didn't want him to overhear.

The official thanks Pizarro for the gifts sent with Molina, then strides casually about the deck of the strange ship, beguiling the foreigners with an easy manner, asking about her construction and her gear like one seaman to another. He is also curious about the animals, the swine, the ship's cat—the only Spanish animal not eaten on the island—who is sunning herself on the rail. Are there bigger animals below, creatures like llamas on which, he's heard, these idlers ride?

Waman says he saw such beasts at the barbarian camp in the hotlands but they all died and there are none on board.

So much is impossible to render. How to translate
compass, cannon
? Even
hog
and
cat
aren't easy. Eventually he recalls words for the wild swine and small spotted cats of the jungle.

After a long inspection, the Emperor's man comes to the point. “Three things. Where have these vagabonds come from? Why are they here? What do they want? Be sure to ask sweetly.”

“This lord asks from what land the esteemed Christians hail. To what end do they favour his humble city with their visit? And in what way can he best fulfill their needs?”

“Tell him we come in friendship,” Pizarro replies. “We bring him greetings from King Charles, the greatest prince in the world, and we bring him good news of the True Faith, so his soul may live forever.”

At this, Pilot Ruiz steps forward, tapping Pizarro on the shoulder. “Let's not forget the Requirement, Don Francisco. We must read it
to him now. Before . . . anything happens. Anything that might stain the blessed soul of His Majesty. To say nothing of your soul and mine. I'll fetch it.” Ruiz goes briskly to his cabin.

“Now, Felipillo,” Pizarro says. “Ask this Indian where we are and who he is. What rank does he hold? Is he a king? What land is this? Have we reached Peru?”

Waman has never been able to answer them about their imaginary land of Peru. He knows the name of his hometown and of this port. Also the capital, the great city of Cusco—far to the south and high in the mountains—and a few other places he's heard his family and others speak of. But he has never heard of anywhere called Peru. Or even that his country
has
a name. As far as he knows, it is simply the Empire. Or the World.

He is no clearer about his captors' geography. Do they come from
Panama
,
Castile
,
Spain
,
Rome
,
Europe
? He has heard them speak of all these, and more. But are they one kingdom or many?

“This port is Tumbes, as I said before, sir.”

“Never mind what you've said. Tell me what
he
says. And what sort of man he is. Is he the king?”

The official chuckles politely at the question and gives a long answer. Waman feels the steam of Pizarro's impatience at his side.

“He says he is not a king. He is only the Emperor's man in Tumbes. An official of the Empire. The Emperor lives far away, beyond the great snows, in his royal city. This lord here is . . . he says he is”—Waman wrestles with the title the highlander has told him,
Tukuy-Rikuq
—“one who sees everything. He looks into all things that concern the Emperor in this province. You could say he is the All-Seer. He asks what you mean by
Perú
.”

“Tell him that Indian traders I questioned some years ago said they came from a place called Peru. A land of gold and camels, like
those over there”—Pizarro points to a llama train being unloaded on the jetty—“and great sands without trees, as I see beyond the city.”

Waman does as he is told. The All-Seer taps an earspool, looks around, points with his chin to the south as he replies.

“He says he knows a town and valley called Wiru, a port down the coast about three hundred miles. He says the seafarers you speak of might have come from there. It's a place of small importance.”

“Then what is this land?”

“It's the World.”

“Don't answer me yourself, boy! I know you don't know. Ask him.”

The All-Seer weighs the question. His duty is to watch, to listen. Not to reveal. The breeze has died. Again he becomes aware of the barbarian ship's foul smell. Like death. And the barbarians themselves look like men on the way to death. He knows of their piracy some months ago. He has also heard reports of their hardships and losses up the coast beyond the Empire. The people there called them vagabonds, thieves, and
wiraqocha
—scum of the sea. A fair assessment. Yet where is the harm in answering this question?

“He says the World is called Tawantinsuyu.”

“A mouthful, boy. Is it just a name, like Spain? Or does it mean something?”

“It means . . . the World, sir.” Waman flinches, afraid Pizarro will hit him, as he has many times. “The World in four parts, as all things are . . . East and West, North and South. Four in one. J-joined together . . .” He hears himself stammer. “You could say the Four Quarters or . . . the United Quarters of the World.”