The Gold Eaters by Ronald Wright

great thing,” Lady Sian continues. “But—between ourselves—I’m not sure it has a place in people’s bedrooms.”
    â€œMaybe not.” The All-Seer gives her a stiff bow. “But it was the widow’s own idea to become more than the barbarian’s landlady.”
    â€œWhat if she grows too fond of him? She might take his side and fail to report as she should.”
    â€œThe woman is reliable. Some traders on that ship the barbarians attacked were kin of hers. Anyway, her main task is to teach him the language. Whatever we fail to learn here the Emperor’s men will get out of him later.”
    The Governor nods, wishing she had been less outspoken. “What will you do if his shipmates come back for him too soon?”
    â€œThey won’t. They’ve sailed a long way down the coast. Last I heard they were nearly at Chincha. Our people there have been told to keep them entertained as long as possible.”

    Molina, too , is in no hurry to see his shipmates. Here in Tumbes he’s a new man, a somebody, an
hidalgo
. Respect and long looks wherever he goes. Especially from women. And what luck to be taken on by this one!
    One of the things Molina likes about Peru is that the custom of siesta is observed. He and his hostess, whose name is Yutu, are sharing a double hammock strung between the avocado trees that shade her patio. She is fast asleep, her chest swelling and falling rhythmically beneath thin cotton. He looks on her fondly and uncuriously, as men do with a woman whose body they’ve explored. His eyes linger on her upturned nose.
Yutu
—some sort of bird, no? A partridge? Something pretty. He likes her birdlike eyes, black and shiny. And her skin: bronze, sleek, hairless. Yet such a lovely head of hair, straight and glossy as the tail of a fine black mare. He loves how it sweeps his chest when she throws him on his back and rides him. So many things she’s taught him! Things that would send a lesser man to the confessional. Or to the stocks.
    Fine house too. Living like a wealthy Moor, waited on by servants, eating fish or meat every day. Picking up the lingo. Even starting to like the beer—a sure sign a man’s settling in. And all this scrubbing and plucking. Each hair tweezered from his hide by Yutu until, with his
moreno
looks and the tunic she’s lent him, he just about passes for a local. He can’t have been this clean since a midwife wiped him down when he came into the world.
    A cold sea-breath lops into the courtyard, chattering the leaves, chilling Molina’s bare chest. His mind strays to Castilian winters, to the freezing orphanage where his mother left him the night she ran away. Away with whom? His father? He doubts she even knew who his father was. Some randy knave no doubt, as quick with his prick as with his knife. Some knave like him.
    Free of all but memories. At least, he feels free here, though Yutu’s no fool, never letting him wander far. Still, it’s a great thing to be her lover instead of a footslogger for that piss-eyed bully Pizarro. Not for the first time Molina asks himself why he crossed the line on GalloIsland. Ah, yes: gambling debts in Panama, and several husbands and fathers who would see him flayed.
    â€œBadluck Molina,” they used to call him in Spain. But no one knows that in Peru. Three months here now, the best of his life. Pizarro can take his time.
    â€”
    Molina and Yutu are strolling through the streets one evening when they hear a loud noise in the air. A howl of lamentation like a thousand lonely dogs.
    Molina’s first thought is that Pizarro must have come back for him at last and committed some outrage—some slaughter on the beach. Yutu grasps his hand and pulls him along, listening, saying nothing, heading for the square. The two have a hard time getting through the throng.
    In the middle of the plaza imperial guardsmen have formed a ring, holding the crowd back