Free The Gold Eaters by Ronald Wright

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?”
    â€œWhat 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.”
    â€œSo 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!”
    â€œWhat is the Old One saying?”
    â€œHe wants to know if you would like to buy the black man.”
    â€œIn return for what?”
    â€œFor his weight in gold.”
    The All-Seer laughs politely, without mirth. A diplomat’s laugh, left hanging while he thinks up a reply.
    â€œThe brand is easily changed,” Pizarro adds, misreading the hesitation.
    â€œWhat now?” the All-Seer asks Waman. “Don’t forget what I said earlier. You’re to tell me everything. Exactly as they say it.”
    â€œHe says he can change the black man’s mark.”
    â€œHis mark?”
    â€œThey wear signs . . . like marks on bricks or pots. Burnt into the skin to show who is their lord.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œMother Earth!”
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œThe 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 hungerfor it. As if they would snatch the spools from my own ears.
Qoritachu mikhunku?
Do they
eat
gold?”
    â€œWhat’s he saying, Felipillo? I want it all. Every word that popinjay utters.”
    â€œHe 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.”
    â€œI’ve spent longer with him than anyone, Commander,” Molina volunteers. “He was with me the whole time I was ashore. Of course, we