The King's Gold by Yxta Maya Murray Read Free Book Online Page A

said.
    “What you will not give, I shall take.” I brandished at him my sword.
    “Oh, but I will give you something. I will give you the prize I award to all who attempt to conquer our City.”
    “And what is that?’
    “Your death.”
    From a purse tied at his waist he plucked a handful of dripping, fetid, yet incendiary amber-colored Mud, which he hurled upon my person before igniting it with one of the torches blazing nearby.
    I do not know of what infernal Drug that mire was made, but it took to fire in an instant, and my entire body became as one pure, killing light. That flame, moreover, only burned the hotter when my general poured his flask upon me, as the Savage’s potion was not doused by water, but instead incensed. I tore off my clothes, rolling on the floor, as the Wizard’s son hurried to sprinkle upon me a thick layer of salt. It was only by the Charity of that Moor that I did not die a Martyr’s death.
    But I still vowed to kill them all. Taking one of the torches, I brought it over to a Great Chest, which was marked with a devil-looking symbol I recognized, for Mercury:

    I set light to the Quicksilver. A blue, stinking, foul Fume exploded and sixty souls fell dead, quivering, green-faced from their own infernal Poison. Close by, there were two additional barrels, each marked with different signs. One was for sulfur, shaped into a cipher that resembled the mark for Woman.

    The other was for the salt the young Moor used to save me, a circle cut through by a bar.

    I opened the box with the woman-like sign, touching the torch to the Sulfur. A column of killing fire burst open, as if I had just beckoned the Sun to come down from the heavens and do my bidding. The swarty Magicians burned like straw men, and those who escaped the flame embraced the blades of my Mercenaries—save for the ash-pale son of the Wizard, who wailed to us Fluent Tuscan.
    “You are stained by the color of cowardice, my son,” I said. “You are weeping like a woman.”
    “What have you done?” he cried. “What is the true nature of Man, that he can commit such offenses against heaven?”
    “A man is made of nothing else but reason.”
    “No, you have proved today that the real Soul of mankind is that of a beast.”
    The timid Moor’s words struck me with a dizzy Revelation, even as I ordered him clapped with iron cuffs branded with the Medici device.
    “Perhaps we are both correct, but that man, in order to survive, transmutes so easily between Reason and Beast-Mind that the difference is impossible to detect.” I laughed with delight at the idea. “You interest me, boy. What is your name?”
    “Opul of Timbuktu.”
    “We are the same,” I urged him, “surely you can see that.”
    “You are the opposite of me, my Lord.” He made a strange sign with his left hand. “I am a poor alchemist but you—you are my reverse. You are an animal. You are what the Italians call il Lupo, the Wolf.”
    “A Wolf,” I said, slowly. I was impressed by the trickery of his language. “You are too clever to die.”
    “He performs witchcraft,” warned my general. “He is calling upon his Djinn, and cursing you with African sorcery, Sir Antonio. We must kill him to remove the jinx.”
    The slave bowed. “I only spoke of what I saw. All fear the Wolf, my Lord. As do I.”
    “What he says is true,” I replied. “As the trickster Plautus writes, nomen atque omen —each man’s true name is also his omen, his portent. And this Varlet has discerned mine. I have transformed into a Wolf, today.”
    “Mercy upon us,” whispered my general, crossing himself.
    But I did not fear strange signs or Moorish prayers. I have found that my new slave speaks several tongues, can write passably well, and though he swears he does not know either the secrets of the Philosopher’s Stone or of this burning amber mud, I will convince him through such measures as are necessary to give over to me those receipts.
    Yet these are not the only reasons