The Gold Eaters Read Online Free PDF Page B

caravel, but his words are lost on the wind. Molina pokes harder; a trickle of red runs over the band of blue.
    â€œImatan munanki?”
the man says at last.
    The words mean nothing. But the tone is clear. Outraged, imperious. As one might say,
How dare you!

    The deckhouse light is dim, filtering through the wicker walls in pinpricks like a starry sky. Waman is afraid, and thankful others cannot see his fear. The room has a comforting smell of wool and cotton, oiled wood, grass mats, buckets of pitch. But there is no comfort now. They all watched the approach of the foreign vessel riding high on the waves like a wooden tub. They all heard the skipper’s warning, followed his order to go inside: “Stay there till I call you. Strip off your jewellery. Hide it in the cotton. If you have weapons, keep them out of sight, but keep them handy. Defend yourselves if it comes to a fight, but above all do not start one.” At this, several traders protested, saying they’d take their own chances and would not hide from thieves.
    â€œListen,” the captain answered. “Now I’ll tell you what I know. Last season one of our ships returned from northern waters beyond the Empire—not far from the region for which we’re bound. When they put in to trade at a place they knew, they found it burnt and abandoned. In the streets and fields were many dead, mere bones by the time they got there. From a few survivors they learnt that a new kind of barbarian had appeared in strange ships. From a distance the hotlanders had mistaken the ships for ours. But the men on board—they were all men, no women, no children—were short and very hairy, with long beards and pale skin, pale as maggots. They looked sickly, and when they came ashore some of them rode like sick men on big llamas. The hotlanders thought they might be the dead, returning from the underworld. But they had the appetites of living men. They seized food, drink, gold, women. They killed anyone who tried to stop them. They killed easily but were hard to kill.
    â€œFor your lives’ sake, do as I say. Go into the house. Stay there until I give word. That is all.”
    For a long time, it seems to Waman, nothing happens. There is only the fear, the blood throbbing in his ears. Something strikes the ship. Shouts on the wind. Heavy footfalls on deck. More shouts in a strange tongue, and the captain demanding, “What do you want?”
    The deckhouse door is torn open. Sunlight blinds him. But he can hear and smell. Cries, strange laughter, women shrieking, knives ripping into bales, the breaking of jars, a reek of sweat and blood. A hand. Leather fingers closing on his throat.

    Could the day’s work have gone another way? the Pilot asks himself, preparing to write up his log that night. Perhaps bloodshed might have been avoided. He should have been more forceful with Pizarro. They should have acted more slowly, with restraint. Would that have exposed them to any higher risk?
    On the Commander’s orders, the helmsman was seized and tied to his own mast. The others were rousted from the deckhouse. There were men, women, an unconscious boy, limp yet breathing. The Commander ordered the boy brought aboard the caravel at once. Youngsters learn fast.
    Then one man—a tall fellow, middle-aged, richly dressed—flourished a weapon, a kind of knife or axe, of bronze or gold. This he held out in his right hand while reaching slowly with his left for García’s sword, holding the young Spaniard’s eye. From where the Pilot stood, it looked like an offer to trade. But García thought otherwise. With a single blow he struck off the stranger’s hand. Heinsisted afterwards that he was threatened, would do the same again without a moment’s dither. Who knew what weapons those Indians had hidden in their clothes?
    At that, some of the Indians—if such they be—leapt overboard and swam for their lives. They swam