PREVIOUSLY.
[Slowly, I raised my right hand and slid the black leather patch upward, revealing to her for the first time the strange, deep glow of my hidden eye. At the same time, I brought the index finger of my other hand to my lips, offering her a soft, complicit gesture for silence: our secret.
Margaret stifled a small gasp of wonder, bringing both of her tiny hands to her mouth to muffle the sound.
In that precise moment, as if the gods of our world wished to bless the silent pact that had just been born, the dense gray clouds of London broke apart.
A thick beam of golden sunlight pierced the fog and bathed the wooden deck of the Tequendama II, illuminating the princess's auburn hair and imbuing the beginning of our voyage with a warm, unforgettable solemnity.]
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Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Ninth Month (November 1495).
London, Kingdom of England.
Deck of the Tequendama II, River Thames.
The magic of that moment, suspended beneath the sunbeam caressing Margaret's coppery hair, vanished abruptly.
The scene shifted instantly, devoured by the methodical chaos of the final boarding. The creaking of wood, the splashing of oars against the hull, and the harsh shouts in English shattered the bubble of silence we had shared.
The last of the heavy longboats, brimming with the English retinue, began to unload their tide of passengers onto the impeccable deck of the Tequendama II.
Margaret, however, could not tear her gaze away from us. Her large green eyes darted from my face—now hidden beneath the patch once more—to Umza's. The girl, despite being scarcely six years old, possessed a sharp intelligence, keen as cut glass.
She had already put the pieces together: the language, the silent authority, the strange eye. She knew perfectly well that the humble translator, "Sansua," was in truth Chuta, the sovereign of the distant kingdom that would become her home, and her future husband.
Her small lips parted; she wanted to bombard us with questions, wanted to speak to Umza, who returned her gaze with an almost maternal affection. But palace discipline won out, and the little princess held her tongue as a cloud of skirts, armor, and velvet enveloped her.
It was her etiquette instructresses, her personal maids, and the imposing bodyguard appointed by the English Crown. A loud, disproportionate entourage that looked upon our vessel with a mix of aristocratic disdain and poorly concealed fear.
From amidst that throng of lace and heavy cloaks emerged a figure walking with his nose pointed toward the seagulls. It was Mr. Spencer, the princess's high steward.
He dressed with ostentatious sobriety, adjusting the cuffs of his doublet as his eyes scrutinized the deck with evident distaste. Dodging the Suaza sailors, he made his way toward the stern with a demanding stride.
Our ship's deck officer—the same burly, salt-weathered man who had ordered us to our hammocks weeks prior—watched him approach with a deeply furrowed brow.
Our captain, busy with departure preparations and visibly sick of dealing with pompous Europeans, had turned toward the helm, ignoring the majordomo's arrival entirely.
"You there!" barked Spencer in an English thick with London arrogance, planting himself in front of the Suaza officer. "I demand to speak with the man in charge of this vessel. Why is the rest of the royal retinue not boarding this ship? It is unacceptable to separate Her Highness's court!"
The deck officer blinked, bewildered by the torrent of foreign words, and his gaze instinctively darted toward me, seeking salvation. After all, my facade as "Sansua" dictated that I was the man in charge of translation and the welfare of the princess's party, alongside my three "companions."
As I stepped forward to intercept the majordomo, my mind wandered inevitably to the previous day, in the embassy office permeated by the scent of wax and wood.
I recalled with absolute clarity the moment John de Vere had approached Chewa with a thick, sealed parchment. It was the official list of the retinue that would accompany the child.
Reading it over my chancellor's shoulder, I had nearly burst out laughing at the absurdity of the demand.
Henry VII was not sending a princess; he was attempting to relocate a small medieval city to our continent. The list included: valets, physicians, apothecaries, bodyguards, secretaries, scribes, the high steward himself, a personal confessor, chaplains, choristers, grooms, and even coachmen.
As if that were not enough, De Vere had let slip, with his characteristic political smile, that in the near future a group of "noble ladies" would travel to provide the child with proper companionship.
Both Chewa and I had been left dumbfounded by such a display of courtly parasitism. And now, observing the face of our deck officer dealing with Spencer, I saw that exact same stupor reflected back at me.
"Mr. Spencer," I intervened, employing a fluent English and a tone that was diplomatic, yet as firm as steel, stepping between him and the officer. "I am Sansua, official liaison of the Stone Manor."
The majordomo looked me up and down, pursing his lips at the sight of my simple tunic and leather eyepatch, evaluating me as a mere servant who had dared to interrupt him.
"Then do your duty, translator," spat Spencer, emphasizing the last word. "Order these men to lower the gangways for the rest of the princess's entourage."
I shook my head, keeping my hands serenely clasped behind my back.
"I am afraid that will not be possible, sir. The orders sent directly by the Suaza Kingdom, and clearly stipulated in the agreement signed with the English Crown, are strict," I explained, letting my voice carry just enough for the nearby English guards to hear. "The retinue permitted aboard this flagship, the Tequendama II, is limited exclusively to the personal bodyguard, Her Highness's innermost circle of servants, and her direct instructresses... Nothing more."
Spencer's pale face flushed crimson. His eyes widened, indignant at the refusal of a subordinate.
"There must be an error in your rustic understanding of the treaty, boy!" he retorted, raising his voice and pointing a gloved finger at me. "His Majesty the King demanded, and was granted, that the entire religious delegation accompany the princess and settle in your kingdom to preach... It is a royal condition!"
I smiled inwardly. I knew that "pact" by heart, letter by letter, because I myself had drafted, sealed, and calculated it. Spencer knew very well what the document said, but, like any good European courtier, he was attempting to use ambiguity and pressure to set a precedent, seeking to accommodate the English priests and nobles on the main ship to establish a symbolic dominance.
"There is no error in my understanding, Mr. Spencer," I corrected him, erasing any trace of amiability from my face and taking an imperceptible step toward him, forcing him to lift his chin. "The settlement permit for the religious delegation and accommodation on this vessel are two entirely different matters."
I made a sweeping gesture with my arm, pointing toward the waters of the Thames, where the other two ships of our fleet rocked imposingly.
"Princess Margaret and her security detail will travel here, under our direct custody. The religious group, the scribes, choristers, and the rest of the extended court are permitted to travel, yes... but they shall do so on the two Tequendama I vessels escorting us. Those are the rules of our ships, and on this deck, Suaza rules are not open to debate."
Spencer was literally left stunned. His mouth opened and closed a few times without emitting a sound. His ruse had crashed against a stone wall. Accustomed to manipulating servants and bending the will of bureaucrats through the sheer weight of the Tudor name, he realized all at once that, in this fleet, his king's crown held no jurisdiction over wooden decks.
He glanced sideways at our deck officer, then at my three wives, who were watching him with sharpened glares, and finally turned his eyes back to me, swallowing his own venom in the dense, salty air of the river.
One week later.
Exactly seven days since the misty, frigid shores of England faded into the horizon, swallowed by the immensity of the Atlantic Ocean.
Leaning against the polished wooden railing of the Tequendama II, I let the warm sea breeze ruffle my hair. In the distance, breaking the blue monotony of the sea, the coastlines and orderly buildings of Guanzauba City were beginning to take shape—our port of call and the vital bridge between the Old and New Worlds.
At first glance, the journey seemed to proceed with the majesty befitting our fleet, but for me, this first leg of the voyage had proven to be a far worse headache than I could have ever anticipated. And it all had a first and last name: Mr. Spencer.
Since the fateful incident on the River Thames, the princess's high steward had unleashed a personal crusade to turn the deck of our ship into a miniature of the London court.
Spencer and his retinue of ladies and guards did not cease complaining about how "insufferable" and "barbaric" the voyage was. They criticized the swaying of the ship, the hardness of the wood, and the lack of velvet tapestries to block the breeze.
I listened to them in silence, stifling an ironic laugh; if they knew what European carracks and caravels were truly like—floating coffins where scurvy and overcrowding were the norm—they would be kissing every plank of our deck.
The culture clash reached its breaking point on the third day.
Accustomed to the dubious sanitation standards of London, the members of the English retinue began throwing their organic waste into any dark corner of the lower deck, avoiding water as if it were poison.
The stench of rancid sweat and urine threatened to rot the air of the ship, becoming a true torment for our Suaza crew, who were accustomed to strict cleanliness.
I had to intervene drastically. Alongside the ship's captain and a pair of menacing-looking officers, we cornered Spencer and his people.
"On this vessel, filth is the worst enemy, Mr. Spencer," the captain had warned him, leaving no room for argument. "From today onward, all passengers will wash their bodies with filtered water and ash soap on a regular basis. And all waste will go exclusively into the aft sanitary chutes that empty into the ocean. Anyone who sullies my ship will clean it with their own tongue."
The indignation of the English was monumental. The ladies wept in scandalized horror and the guards muttered insults under their breath, but they complied. The Suaza crew, who could no longer bear the reek of their passengers, all welcomed the measure with looks of profound relief.
Ironically, there was one aspect of our customs that outright silenced the Europeans' complaints: the food.
In 15th-century England, a high-seas diet consisted of hardtack as tough as stone, salted meat infested with weevils, and rancid water.
On the Tequendama II, by contrast, the daily menu featured three abundant meals. We served maize prepared in various ways, fresh fish, dried tubers, preserved fruits, and dehydrated meat.
Spencer and his group ate with the voracity of starved wolves, believing that such a feast was a luxury served exclusively to honor the princess's presence.
I never bothered to correct their delusion, but the reality was pure naval science: that varied diet was no royal whim, but rather the strict rule of our armada to prevent vitamin deficiencies, eradicate scurvy, and make the harsh life on the ocean bearable.
However, not all our problems came from the English. Umza, my temperamental Pijao wife, had given me her own share of headaches.
Since the main cabin and the luxury quarters had been yielded to Princess Margaret, we had to sleep on the lower decks, settled into our traditional cotton hammocks. The hammock didn't bother Umza in the slightest; what drove her mad was that our new "neighbors" in that section were Spencer and the princess's inner circle.
A smile touched my lips as I remembered the monumental argument from the morning prior.
Spencer, seeking to recover some lost pride, had attempted to forbid Umza, Nyia, and Turey from approaching Margaret during the day, claiming that "Her Highness must be surrounded solely by noble blood and Christian influence."
Umza did not mince words. She had planted herself mere inches from the stuffy majordomo's face, her eyes burning like fiery coals.
"Listen to me well, man of dust," Umza had hissed at him, pointing an accusing finger. "The little princess has left your gray island behind. She is now under the care and custody of the Suaza Kingdom. Here, things are done as we dictate. If I wish to see the child, I shall see her. And if you stand in my way again, I will tie you to one of the masts and let the seagulls have their fun with you."
Spencer recoiled, turning pale, and from that moment on, my wives had reclaimed their rightful place at the girl's side.
The sound of a crystalline, childlike laugh brought me back to the present.
A few meters away from me, on the sunlit main deck, Umza, Nyia, and Turey were seated in a circle upon wool cushions, surrounding little Margaret. The princess, whose pale face was beginning to take on a healthy rosy hue thanks to the sun and good nourishment, watched Umza with absolute fascination. They had decided the boredom of the voyage was the perfect excuse to teach her a few words of our language.
"Let's see, my little flower," Umza was saying, gently raising one finger. "One. How do you say one?"
"A... Ata," Margaret replied, pronouncing the Muisca word with an adorable, heavy accent.
"That's it!" cheered Turey, clapping softly, which made the girl smile from ear to ear. "Now two... Boza."
"Bo... za," repeated the princess, her green gaze fixed intently on Umza's fingers. "Ata, boza... and three is mica. Ata, boza, mica!"
My heart squeezed a little at the sight of that scene. It was the image of two worlds colliding—not with swords, but with the tenderness of a little girl learning to live in her new home.
As I watched them in wonder, the crunch of heavy boots behind me interrupted my reverie.
I turned to find Chewa. The efficient chancellor had traveled with us thus far, since Guanzauba City was precisely the urban and commercial hub he directed and managed remotely, the jewel of our overseas colonies. He looked impeccable in his official uniform, but there was a faint shadow of tension across his brow.
"Leader... or Sansua, as you prefer," Chewa murmured in a low tone, stopping beside me and resting his hands on the railing, pretending to observe the ever-nearing coastline. "The lookouts have just confirmed that we will enter the port in a couple of hours."
"It is a beautiful sight, Chewa. You have done an exceptional job managing this city," I replied, nodding toward the stone docks and clay rooftops gleaming under the sun.
Chewa swallowed hard, rubbing his chin with a gesture of genuine concern.
"I thank you, but I fear things are not as tranquil as they appear from here. I need your 'help,' Chuta. There is an urgent matter in the city... something that has been escalating during my absence, and I believe only you have the authority to resolve it before you set sail again for the Great Quyca."
…
Disembarking the Tequendama II was a relief to my senses, a necessary escape from the suffocating atmosphere the English court had installed on the upper decks. Accompanied only by Chewa, I stepped onto the solid stone docks of Guanzauba City.
The heat here was distinct from that of our capital in the Great Quyca. It was a dry, vibrant heat, permeated with the scent of toasted spices, saltpeter, and baked earth beneath an unforgiving sun.
As we made our way through the stevedores and headed toward the city's Council House, my eyes could not take it all in.
It was my first time setting foot in this colonial jewel, our bastion in Africa, and the reality far exceeded any report I had read in my study. I knew it would be a long time before I could cross the ocean to visit it again, so I wanted to engrave every detail into my memory.
The architecture was a fascinating spectacle. The buildings rose in a perfect blend of two worlds: the imposing walls of red clay and adobe, typical of the West African style—evocative of the great empires of Mali or Songhai that our researchers were studying—merged harmoniously with the rigorous applied geometry of Suaza cities. The lines were flawless, the angles mathematically precise, and freshwater canals flowed through impeccable aqueducts that defied the aridity of the environment.
But what struck me most was not the stone or the mud, but the human mosaic bustling in the streets.
Men and women with deep, dark skin, adorned in vibrantly colored garments, traded and walked with their heads held high. Among them, I spotted figures wrapped in loose tunics and turbans, people with pronounced features from the Middle East and the arid North.
I knew, from the ledger books, of the constant visits by trans-Saharan merchants who crossed the desert seeking our wares, but seeing that melting pot of cultures materialize before me, under the shadow of the Suaza flag, filled me with an indescribable pride.
Nevertheless, the beauty of the city could not dispel the knot in my stomach.
"Alright, Chewa, we are far from English ears now," I said, slowing my pace and looking at him with a furrowed brow. "Speak at once. What is this urgent matter that requires my authority? An uprising? Problems with the local tribes?"
Chewa stopped in the shade of a large, unbleached canvas awning. To my bewilderment, the tension in his shoulders melted away, and a wide, almost mischievous smile spread across his face.
"There is no emergency, Leader," he confessed, letting out a small laugh at the sight of my stunned expression. "Forgive my impudence. In truth, it was nothing of importance. Simply put... I wanted an excuse to show you the city we have built, alone, without the suffocating presence of the guards and, above all, far from the prying eyes of your Shadows."
I let out a long sigh, feeling my soul return to my body. My rigid posture relaxed, and a smile of genuine relief blossomed on my lips.
"By the gods, Chewa, you nearly scared me half to death," I murmured, shaking my head. "Though I do understand you. The Shadows can be... intense."
As we resumed our walk, my mind journeyed inevitably to the past.
I thought of how wise my decision had been to reveal to Chewa the existence of the Shadows, my elite intelligence and espionage network. I remembered the afternoon I had him enter my study, years ago.
His ever-serene face had entirely crumbled upon discovering that one of the most trusted commercial managers in his own enterprise was, in reality, an undercover operative of the Shadows.
Chewa's stupefaction had reached its absolute limit when I revealed the identity of the organization's leader. To the entire Empire, Zasaba was simply the strict and respectable headmaster of the Simte Academy in Central City, a scholar dedicated to education. Discovering that this academic was the master of spies, capable of infiltrating and orchestrating silent assassinations, had left Chewa speechless for nearly ten minutes.
I snapped out of my reverie when we reached the steps of the Council House, an imposing building that dominated the main square.
"It is a true relief that there is nothing grave amiss, my friend," I told him, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder.
But looking at him closely, I noticed that Chewa's smile did not quite reach his eyes. There was a persistent crease of worry between his brows, a small twitch in his jaw that I knew all too well.
I paused, my foot halting on the first step.
"Chewa..." My tone reverted to that of the Suaza Leader, sharp and scrutinizing. "Are you absolutely certain there is nothing to worry about? Your face says otherwise."
Chewa swallowed hard, his smile deflating like a sail stripped of wind, and finally, he let out a sigh so deep it seemed to drag all his administrative fatigue out with it.
"You are right, Leader. I apologize, I sought to soften the moment," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck nervously. "The problem... the problem, in truth, is Sogeking."
The name struck me with the force of lightning. My eyes widened in surprise.
Sogeking.
That eccentric naval commander named after a manga character. It suddenly struck me that I hadn't seen him face-to-face in a very long time, almost since the exact date Chewa had departed to assume control of the city.
"Sogeking?" I repeated, frowning. "What happened to him? I haven't read a direct report in his own handwriting for months."
Chewa grimaced, as though his head ached just from mentioning him.
"That is precisely the problem, Leader. Sogeking has given free rein to his 'liberty' at sea. He rarely anchors his ships in port and almost never sets foot in the city. He appears, makes scandalous demands for supplies, and vanishes back over the horizon before the bureaucrats can make him sign a single piece of parchment."
My blood ran a little hotter, and my expression hardened. The eastern Dawn Ocean (Atlantic) was a critical zone; the Portuguese and Spanish trade routes were beginning to become a nuisance, and we needed discipline.
"Are you telling me he has abandoned his post?" I asked, a hint of anger threading through my voice. "Has he not fulfilled his duty to protect the coasts and watch over this side of the sea? If so, I will relieve him of command this very day."
To my surprise, Chewa let out a genuine burst of laughter, raising both hands in a conciliatory gesture.
"No, no, Leader! It is quite the opposite," he hurried to clarify, his eyes shining with a mix of amusement and exasperation. "Sogeking is fulfilling his duty to perfection. No European ship dares to approach our waters, and the trade routes have never been safer. The problem is that he is... too impulsive. He hurls himself into hunting pirates or exploring corners of the continent for sheer amusement. He flees from bureaucracy as if it were a plague, or as he himself shouted at me from the deck of his ship the last time I saw him: he says he is simply an 'adventurer.'".
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Thank you all for your support. Let's get straight to the chapter comments.
CHAPTER COMMENTS
First, I should mention that the people who appear alongside Margaret in the future won't have much of a role in the novel. I'm referring to the English; perhaps only some of the English noblewomen's companions will be relevant.
Second, Sogeking hasn't appeared in the novel because I want to dedicate a series of consecutive chapters to explaining all his recent experiences. That's also why I've written, and will write, other chapters about sailing.
Third, the news from Chewa also reinforces Chuta's decision to make Europeans look to other continents first.
As a side note, the Treaty of Alcáçovas is the only one in force up to the point in the novel. It established a parallel at the latitude of the Canary Islands, with Spain to the north and Portugal to the south.
AUTHOR'S COMMENTS
First, I realized I wasn't wrong about the Margaret image, so I'll upload it now.
Second, for those who managed to see the chapter before I deleted and re-uploaded it, the changes were only in formatting. All the text was showing up without spacing, and I don't know why.
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