I am Iñigo, the banker, my father’s son
But our vaults are filled with my brother’s gold,
Xocolatl and Monardes’ leaves.
Though we are not peons, my brother is the one
Who will be mistaken for the humble Genoese.
Sephardi, his lips are sealed. Of necessity
He flies the flag of Ferdinand and of fiction.
On dry land his truth is well concealed.
His name traverses the New World and the Old.
Who
is he?