The Gold Eaters (8 page)

Pilot Ruiz returns with a sheet of paper written closely on both sides. He hands it to Pizarro, knowing Pizarro can't read. Let him be shamed, Ruiz tells himself with pleasure. He may have to obey the
Commander, but he's not obliged to like the man. He thinks again of Pizarro's shabby role in the death of Balboa.

The Commander hands the document back without looking at Pilot or paper. His face has reddened. He nods stiffly.

The All-Seer watches this exchange. “What is that leaf?” he asks the boy. “A gift? An offering?”

“They have something to say. Those black marks serve them as the knots serve us.”

“Why don't they just say it, then? Are their memories so weak?”

The Pilot begins to read aloud, a tremble in his voice. Pizarro tells the interpreter to hold his tongue.

I, Commander Francisco Pizarro, vassal and envoy of the high and mighty Kings of Castile and León, conquerors of barbarous nations, hereby inform you that God Our Lord, One and Eternal, created Heaven and Earth and a man and a woman from whom you and I and all the world's people are descended. And God set one called Saint Peter in the holy city of Rome to reign over the Earth as High Priest and Pope, to govern and judge all peoples.

And the heir of Saint Peter, who is, as I have said, the Papa, the High Priest of the Earth, has given all these lands to the Catholic Kings of Castile.

And so I request and require you to recognize God's Holy Church as Mistress and Governess of the whole world, and in Her name to obey His Majesty King Charles as your Ruler and Lord King. You must allow the Fathers of the Church to instruct and preach to you. And if you do this, all will be well. And His Majesty—and I in his name—will welcome you with love and charity. But if you do not do this—

“Stop there, Ruiz!” Pizarro cuts in. “If he hears the rest we'll all be dead by sunset.” He raises a whiskery eyebrow to the warships, the crowd at the waterside. “If that lot turn against us, not even God can save us Christians. Keep it for next time.” The Old One has a faraway look in his eyes, which stray from those beside him to the channel and the sea beyond. “Next time, Pilot Ruiz,” he repeats, with a sly pout of his lips. “When we come back with an army big enough to take this land.”

Ruiz is used to hearing blasphemy from Pizarro, and he knows that the Requirement—often read without translation—is a farce. Still, the form must be followed. The Commander has no right to send them all to Hell.

“In the name of God and His Majesty let me finish, Don Francisco. The Indian hasn't a word of Spanish. How much the boy renders to him is for you and your conscience to decide. But as master of this ship and chaplain—there being no priest aboard—it's my duty to read out every word of this writ as the King commands.” He resumes before Pizarro can reply.

If you do not do this, with the help of God I shall come mightily against you, and I shall make war on you. I shall bend you to the yoke and obedience of the Church and His Majesty; and I shall seize your women and children and make them slaves, to sell and dispose as His Majesty commands; and I shall do all the evil and damage to you that I can. And I insist that the death and destruction will be your own fault.

“It is too much at once, sir,” Waman says nervously. “Please ask Pilot Ruiz to repeat it slowly, in bits . . . little by little.”

“No need for that, Felipillo. Tell the Indian no more than what I said at the beginning—about our King, our friendship, and Our
Lord. Keep it short, or I'll rip that pink tongue from your dusky head.”

Waman turns to the All-Seer, nerves failing him. The Emperor's man may not understand a word of Castilian, yet he can surely tell a short speech from a long one. The boy feels giddy, on the edge of tears.

“My lord All-Seer. The bearded ones say they worship a god who made everything in the world, our forebears and theirs. This god has a high priest . . . somewhere in the land they come from. The priest's name is the Papa . . . and this Papa . . .” Suddenly the boy feels laughter rising inside him like vomit, for in the Empire's language
papa
means potato. He stares at his feet, fighting to keep a straight face. If he catches his countryman's eye he will be done for. “This . . . this priest has given the whole world to their king called Carlos, who they say is the greatest ruler on Earth. And this king sends the Old One here to tell your lordship of his love and friendship, and to bring news of their god. That is all I could follow, my lord.”

The official stands perfectly still, his face unreadable. It is Pizarro who breaks the silence, beckoning to Ruiz, grinning at the visitor.

“Hand it to him, Pilot. Let the Indian keep the Requirement.” A mocking laugh. “Let him study it.”

The All-Seer accepts the paper and folds it carefully like a kerchief, putting it in a vicuña bag that hangs at his belt. He turns to hail his boatman on the raft.

“Tell him not to leave yet,” Pizarro says quickly, smiling at the All-Seer. “He must dine with us before he goes.”

The Emperor's man accepts.

—

“Extraordinary! Quite extraordinary.” The All-Seer releases Tomás's arm. The African continues round the cabin table with the wine flask. He has grown used to such inspections in the Indies.

“It won't rub off, my lord,” Waman explains. “The colour is natural to them.” Though still uneasy at speaking with the lofty official, he feels emboldened by his standing as his captors'
lengua
, their lone interpreter. Indispensable; therefore safe. At least until others learn. For now, nobody will break the
chaka
, the bridge between worlds.

“Apparently so,” the All-Seer replies. “But what an extraordinary coincidence! In our language we use the same word for anything black and for those who serve and help us. For no reason anyone remembers—it just happens to be the same word. And now these barbarians show up with a helper who really
is
black. It's the oddest thing I've seen since they arrived. Do their women give birth out of colour sometimes, like llamas?”

“What says the savage?” Pizarro asks. “Does he want to buy Tomás? What's his bid?”

Making as if he hasn't heard, Waman continues speaking to the All-Seer. “The black ones come from another faraway land, beyond the country of the pale ones. They are the pale ones' prisoners.”

“So there are many more like this?”

The interpreter explains he has been gone from the Empire only a few months and after his capture was in the barbarians' island camp. He has seen only a hundred of the outlanders, all told. No women, no children. Of the hundred, four or five were black.

Pizarro has Waman by the ear, rough beard against smooth cheek. “Enough of that babble! Tell him I'll take the black's weight in gold.” The boy shrinks from the bristly touch and winy breath. “Go on. Tell him that!”

“What is the Old One saying?”

“He wants to know if you would like to buy the black man.”

“In return for what?”

“For his weight in gold.”

The All-Seer laughs politely, without mirth. A diplomat's laugh, left hanging while he thinks up a reply.

“The brand is easily changed,” Pizarro adds, misreading the hesitation.

“What now?” the All-Seer asks Waman. “Don't forget what I said earlier. You're to tell me everything. Exactly as they say it.”

“He says he can change the black man's mark.”

“His mark?”

“They wear signs . . . like marks on bricks or pots. Burnt into the skin to show who is their lord.”

“I will see this.”

Waman plucks Tomás's arm as the African glides around the table with the wine. Tomás is his jailer, but a kindly one. It was he who taught him his first words of the barbarians' language, and how to behave among them. “Tomás. Show him your back. Your brand.”

The African turns, white shirt dropping from black shoulders, revealing the Commander's monogram.

“Mother Earth!”

“We can burn a new one over that,” Pizarro cuts in, worried the All-Seer might think he's being offered damaged goods. “Go on! Tell him. Any device he wants.”

Waman does as told. His ear, at last, is released.

“The black man is certainly a fine cook,” the official replies smoothly. “I have eaten well at my hosts' table. One of the best meals in memory. And this drink is splendid. It warms the belly so much better than our beer. Say all that to the Old One. Give him my highest compliments. But say with regret that I am not authorized to trade with him. Besides, the Emperor has many cooks and helpers. And I think there may be more important matters to discuss.” The All-Seer looks Waman in the eye, the first time he has done so, and lowers his voice. “What is it with them about gold? I see their hunger
for it. As if they would snatch the spools from my own ears.
Qoritachu mikhunku?
Do they
eat
gold?”

“What's he saying, Felipillo? I want it all. Every word that popinjay utters.”

“He asks whether Christians eat gold.”

Now it is Francisco Pizarro who laughs, pale eyes sparkling in their sunburnt wells. “Did you hear that, gentlemen? This savage lord's a fool. Or he's drunk too much wine and dares make fools of us.”

“I've spent longer with him than anyone, Commander,” Molina volunteers. “He was with me the whole time I was ashore. Of course, we couldn't talk except by signs. Not without Felipe there. I know some of you doubt the wonders I saw—their mosque full of gold. Call me a liar if you like. You'll find out the truth soon enough. But think how this lord inspected the ship. All his questions—and his silences. He asks many things. He tells little. What did he say, Don Francisco, when we spoke of our True Faith, our friendship, and King Charles?” Molina looks around the table, pleased to see he has his shipmates' attention. “Nothing. Not one word. I say he's no fool.”

Candía claps his hands, nodding vigorously. “Well said, Molina, well said. I think as you do.” The Greek turns to Pizarro. “As you put it so well yourself, Don Francisco, when you picked out us goats from those sheep who went back to Panama. To be poor is to be nothing. To be poor is to starve. So, yes. Yes! The Indian's right. We live on gold.”

Waman to the Emperor's man: “
Arí, nispa. Qoritam mikhunku.
Yes, they are saying. They do eat gold.”

—

That night, in the ship's belly, the boy can't rest. At times he reaches the foreshore of sleep, his mind sinking into nonsense. But each time, the cat appears, butting him under the chin with a bony head,
kneading his chest with her paws, filling his ears with a loud, insistent purr. The day's events parade before him, all the brighter and more grotesque for the darkness in which he lies chained. The All-Seer left after a show of cordiality, begging the strangers to come ashore next morning to see the city. The official also said certain things privately to Waman, asking him his birthplace, his name, his parents' names; as much as telling him that they are kinsmen, coming down from the time the Empire took this coast and settled highlanders among the locals. The great man spoke like an uncle, and spoke well, implying—it was an assumption really—that Waman has come home after a terrible ordeal. That he will leave the bearded ones when they go ashore tomorrow. That his family will be sent for, brought to the city, where he can greet them as a young man of substance. For he will now be working for the Emperor.

At last the boy falls asleep, cat by his side.

—

Francisco Pizarro also has a restless night, a rarity for him. Over and over he weighs the benefits and risks of going ashore. One should never show fear to natives. Nor to one's own men. Yet the Peruvian official's shrewd demeanor has rattled him. The man's invitation to see his city is likely a trap. It would be folly to play into his hands.

He decides to send only two: Candía the Greek, veteran of many wars, a chatterbox but a sounder fellow than Molina, and the slave Tomás—mainly to watch Candía's back but also because of the impression his colour always makes on Indians. (Besides, the Peruvian might change his mind and buy the black after all.) Felipillo he keeps below in shackles, so he can neither flee nor be taken easily if the natives make an attempt on the ship. The others stay on deck, weapons at the ready, Pilot Ruiz standing by to hoist sail at the first alarm.

The All-Seer of Tumbes Province
is feeling a little unwell from the barbarians' food. Or more likely their drink. After all, the food was wholesome—mostly what he gave them himself. The spies he has watching their ship tell him the outlanders are wary, which means they are afraid. He is therefore hardly surprised, if disappointed, to see only two barbarians come ashore this time, neither of them the leader.

One yesterday, two today. At this rate it will take some time to lure them into custody—assuming that is what the Emperor directs. The All-Seer has already dictated a report, marking it urgent with an orange mastercord, watching the knotkeeper's fingers weave his words into threads. He has sent this to the city of Tumipampa in the Quito highlands, where the Emperor resides while fighting northern wars.