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.”
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 t
o 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.
From his roof terrace the All-Seer watched the pair of runners take off like antelope along the great north road, first link in the chain of relays who will bear his message more than two hundred miles over sand and s
now in a single day and night. How lucky the court is only one day’s mail away at present, instead of five to the capital. Soon the barbarians will not be his burden alone.
—
Candía is dressed to dazzle—striding along the jetty in shining helmet and chainmail, arquebus over his shoulder, Toledo sword at his belt, his beard oiled and glossy as sable. Tomás follows, bare-chested, wearing only a pair of white cotton britches and heavy brass rings in nose and ears. Onlookers swarm them as they walk up from the haven towards the middle of town, where the temple’s golden roof rises steeply above the flat-topped buildings. Women come from their doors, laughing and smiling, stroking the Greek’s beard, patting the African’s springy hair, exclaiming at the white skin and the black, especially the latter with its cruel brand. One girl gives Candía’s hairy cheek a pinch, and giggles. By God he could use a woman! But the Greek has travelled and fought in many lands. He knows better than to form hasty notions about the ways of foreigners.
“Some pretty ones, eh, Tomás? What do you think? Do they want to be our friends or our lovers?” Tomás grins in reply, white teeth splitting the darkness of his face. Pizarro claims that the youth lacks reason—like all Africans, according to the Church, which makes them lawful slaves. But Candía thinks the black is merely a lad of few words; when he does have something to say it’s often worth hearing.
Before they have gone far, four men in red helmets and tunics of black-and-yellow squares come to escort them to the plaza, taking them to the great hall whose front is covered in bold paintings of whales, birds, and fish. Sentries flank the doorway and others stand at attention in tall niches along the building’s façade, all in the same uniform, heavy pikes with bronze blades in hand.
Candía and Tomás are led into a courtyard and seated on stools beneath a cotton awning. The escort withdraws, leaving the visitors to themselves. Water is flowing from a fountain in the middle—a large eight-sided basin carved from a single stone. The water crosses the courtyard by a channel and runs under a wall into the building. Around the patio are earthenware pots with flowering shrubs. The only sounds are the purl of water and the quarrelsome buzz of hummingbirds making their way from bloom to bloom, their tiny bodies iridescent in the sun.
The Gold Eaters Page 6
