Free The Gold Eaters by Ronald Wright Page A

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.”
    â€”
    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.
    â€”
    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