The silhouette on the horizon was no longer that of an ordinary village. As the expeditionary group drew closer, the change in the landscape was palpable, almost vibrant.
Where once there was only the dense, chaotic green of the Atlantic Forest, there now emerged orderly clearings, belts of native rice crops that swayed like a golden sea under the evening breeze.
Reinforced wooden pens sheltered a visibly larger herd of domesticated Mutum and other animals whose breeding Ubirajara had encouraged.
The sound of construction was a constant hum floating on the breeze: the rhythmic strike of stone hammers, the scraping of potteries molding clay, and the murmur of a population that seemed to have doubled in his absence.
Atop the main palisade, Tainá watched. Her eyes, sharpened by forest life and an intuition that had grown keener in recent weeks, focused on the column emerging from the trail.
She immediately noted the group's disproportionate size.
Ubirajara had left with twenty men; he was returning with fifty, along with prisoners and a retinue that altered the march's silhouette.
Her initial interest transformed into a cold analysis as she noticed the female figures walking among the warriors, wearing adornments that did not belong to her tribe.
Near the entrance gate, reinforced with logs of pink peroba, the Shaman Arandu and the Morubixaba Guaraci also waited.
Arandu held a notebook made of mallow paper, crudely bound in leather, noting his initial impressions with a bone stylus dipped in jenipapo ink.
"They have returned with many more people than they took," Arandu commented without looking up from the paper, recording the head count. "I thought the purpose of the journey was merely mapping the region and prospecting for iron."
Guaraci, arms crossed over his broad chest with war scars glistening under the sun, let out a dry laugh, though not one of disapproval. "More people? I believe the correct word for that is marriage, old friend. He must have visited some village along the way and wedded the warriors. Look at how they walk... they are couples. Ubirajara knows that an army is maintained by the belly, but it expands through the womb."
"The problem," Arandu observed, making a quick mark on the paper, "is that the women of our village of the same age are also single. Perhaps we will have more couples with more than one wife in this generation than expected. The social balance is about to be tested."
"Which village did they pass through, I wonder?" the Shaman asked curiously. "The one to the north or the one to the west?"
"Good question," Guaraci replied. "It's likely a village we aren't familiar with. Perhaps to the south, following the river's course. From the Great River(ocean) it's impossible; he said he would make a larger expedition for that in the future."
Arandu dipped the tip of his stylus into the ink and recorded the discussion with almost obsessive precision. It was the birth of Tupi historiography, the record of the moment a village began its transformation into a sophisticated urban complex.
"Are you going to write down everything in that book now?" the Morubixaba Guaraci asked, arching an eyebrow at his friend.
The Shaman nodded jokingly, a glint of intelligence in his eyes. He wrote: "The Morubixaba asked if I would record everything in the notebook. I replied yes, magnanimously."
Below the palisade, Tainá watched their interaction only out of the corner of her eye. Her hand dropped, almost unconsciously, to feel her own belly over her light garment of raw cotton.
Her eyes sought only one man. She was anxious to find him, to ask about the dangers of the mountains, and, above all, to give him the news that would change both their fates.
On the horizon, standing out by his height and the solar-plumed helm that reflected the last rays of the afternoon, Ubirajara appeared. He walked flanked by Ubiratan and Moacir, but what stole the scene were the two women walking just behind him.
Anahi and Iara wore the adornments of their Tupiniquim lineages, blue macaw feathers and capybara-tooth necklaces, and their posture left no doubt about their status: they were not servants; they were consorts.
On the outside, Ubirajara maintained the expression of a triumphant leader, chin held high and shoulders broad. Inside, however, the "modern self" of his consciousness was screaming with pure nervousness.
His heart pounded against his ribs, an anxiety that no combat against the Aruaques or in the Mantiqueira Mountains had managed to provoke.
As he passed through the gate and smelled the smoke from the firewood and the compacted earth, he saw Tainá.
He left the main group and stepped forward, signaling for Anahi and Iara to follow him. As he approached, he saw Tainá's smile extinguish like an ember blown by the wind. She grasped the situation instantly.
Her expression became a mask of diplomatic neutrality, a wall of dignity awaiting justification.
"Tainá," Ubirajara began, his voice slightly thick with fatigue and tension. "The expedition... its nature changed. To guarantee our future, the iron from the mountains and protection against what comes from the north, I needed to seal blood ties with the Tupiniquins."
He introduced the two women, explaining the lineages of Juriti and Piatã, the leaders who were now his allies. There was a moment of dense silence, a sonic vacuum where the village women, crowding around, began to whisper like dry leaves.
Some spoke of "infidelity," while the men looked at their leader with renewed and slightly envious admiration.
Tainá looked Anahi and Iara up and down. Instead of the emotional explosion Ubirajara feared, she only let out a long sigh, as if accepting a necessary burden. She approached the two and, with a firm but surprisingly welcoming gesture, took them by the hands.
"Come," Tainá said, completely ignoring her husband for a moment. "We have much to discuss in the maloca about how things work here. Men understand war, but women understand the importance of living together."
She pulled them away toward the main dwelling, leaving Ubirajara standing in the middle of the courtyard, hand extended in the air and an expression of complete embarrassment.
Guaraci approached from behind and gave him a heavy pat on the shoulder, nearly making him stumble.
"Congratulations on the diplomatic success, leader," the Morubixaba laughed. "Now, let the jaguars settle it among themselves. We have matters of State that require your presence."
The group proceeded to the Community Center. As he walked, Ubirajara tried to focus his mind on the visible progress of the village.
In just thirty days, the village had been transformed. The potteries now operated on a shift system, producing adobe bricks and tiles that were beginning to replace thatch in some experimental buildings, reducing fire risk and increasing durability.
The irrigation system for the rice was more sophisticated, featuring small clay-lined channels.
"The population has increased drastically," Ubirajara observed, noting new faces and different dialects. "Many refugees?"
"Many," Arandu confirmed. "The fame of our village as a prosperous place has spread. We are receiving families from all sides, including smaller groups fleeing the Aruaques. We need order, Ubirajara."
They entered the meeting room of the Community Center. It was an impressive space for the time and place: a large table of polished rosewood, backed chairs, and rolls of paper and ink set out for writing. It was a cabinet environment, a command center that exuded serene authority.
Ubirajara opened the map that Ubiratan had carried with such zeal. For the next thirty minutes, he detailed every geographical landmark, the strategic alliance with the Tupiniquins, and the imminent threat of the Aruaque scouts he had encountered.
But the climax of the meeting occurred when he placed the hematite stone on the table. The dark, heavy mineral gleamed under the torchlight.
"This," he said, pointing to the mineral. "This is iron. With this, we will make axes that do not lose their edge on the first trunk, and spearheads that pierce any hide or laminated wood. But extraction requires a fixed structure. We need to establish a mining outpost near the stream in the Mantiqueira."
"How does this process of taking metal from stone work?" Guaraci asked, touching the hematite with suspicion.
"It is a process of fire, chemistry, and patience," Ubirajara explained, sketching a quick diagram on paper. "We need to build refractory ceramic furnaces that can withstand extreme heat. This process leaves the metal pure. We will mine there, bring the raw ore down the river on rafts, and refine it here, in a centralized workshop we will call the Foundry."
"This will require many men and constant transport logistics," Arandu pondered, already calculating the labor cost. "But the return in tools and weapons... if it is half of what you say, we will be the center of the entire Tupi world."
"It's not just about war, Arandu," Ubirajara intervened, his eyes shining with a vision of the future. "It is about prosperity. If we have iron, we will have plows that tear the earth with ease. If we have plows, we will have triple harvests. If we have surplus food, other tribes will not fight us; they will beg to join us."
Arandu's support was immediate, and Guaraci, convinced by the military utility, gave his endorsement. The meeting ended with the planning of the first mining teams and the creation of a guard corps to protect the future river road.
Leaving the Center, Ubirajara felt the real weight of his responsibilities. He observed the body paint of the people passing by complex jenipapo designs indicating clans and lineages.
He realized that to rule a growing nation, he needed more than authority; he needed an image that inspired reverence.
The model of communal malocas, where everyone heard everything and privacy was non-existent, was beginning to stifle his ability to plan and to be seen as something "above" the ordinary.
"I need my own residence," he thought, walking toward the river. "A house that symbolizes the center of power, separate from the constant bustle. A mansion that functions as both palace and office. With gardens, guards, and space for the treasury and documents."
He could already visualize the location: a high ground offering a panoramic view of the Paraíba do Sul River. He intended to pave the access with rocks from a granite quarry he had noticed during his return, facilitating the river transport of materials.
He wanted the village to stop being a village and become a capital, with paved streets and an aesthetic that screamed progress.
When he finally entered the maloca to face what he imagined would be a "tribunal of wives," he found a scene that disarmed him.
Anahi and Iara were sitting on the floor, listening intently as Tainá taught them the technique of weaving cotton fibers with a new type of spindle Ubirajara had suggested before leaving. Tainá's authority was absolute and natural; she did not shout; she led. The two new consorts seemed to have accepted their role under the matriarch's supervision.
Ubirajara smiled at Tainá a silent apology and a thank you for the domestic peace. She returned the look with an intensity that seemed to read his soul.
"We need to talk privately, Ubirajara," she said, rising with slow grace.
They moved to a more private corner of the village, near a kapok tree with generous shade behind the palisade. The sun was nearly set, painting the sky with brushstrokes of orange, violet, and a deep gold that reflected in the river.
"You left something behind before you departed something that grew while you were mapping the mountains," she began, her voice low and steady.
She took his hand and placed it over her womb, still flat beneath the cotton, but radiating a different kind of heat. "I am carrying your blood. You will have a child."
Ubirajara froze. Time seemed to stop, and the sound of construction in the distance became an indistinct hum. A violent mixture of emotions hit him in waves: an overwhelming happiness he had never felt in his previous life, a primal protective instinct that made his muscles tense, and, immediately after, a cold terror.
"I've barely even hit puberty in this world properly..." he thought, his mind spinning like a gear out of control. "I have the responsibility of an entire nation on my back, an imminent war against the Aruaques knocking at the door, and now a child?"
He looked at Tainá, who smiled with pure hope and unwavering confidence in him. He hugged her tightly, hiding his face in her neck, breathing in the scent of urucum and skin.
"He will be a great warrior... or a sage who will change the world," he whispered.
But internally, Ubirajara's modern self was recalculating every plan. He looked at the river, seeing the reflection of the rising moon, and cursed silently.