Chapter 11: Countermoves | Rajah Versus Conquistador
Morning of April 14th, 1521
Dawn breaks over Zubu as Magellan stands in the lead longboat, the crisp white of his clothing catching the morning light. The royal banner of King Carlos snaps in the breeze above him, its gold and crimson brilliant against the grey sky. Behind him, three more longboats follow in precise formation, each heavily laden with armed men, their steel breastplates glinting.
He spent half the night weighing the decision. Two trips would have been safer. But the image of San Fernando entering Seville came to him during his prayers—the saint-king advancing with all his forces arrayed, the power of God and Castile made manifest. There could be no half-measures in this holy endeavor.
Lord God, who hast guided us across the great ocean, bless this day's undertaking. Father Pedro Valderrama sits in the boat beside him, the morning light catching his worn black cassock. The priest's quiet presence steadies him, as it has during their long conversations about conversion and conscience.
His hand moves unconsciously to check the sword at his hip, then to touch the cross at his throat. Every detail has been arranged with careful precision: the two men in full armor to precede the banner, the timing of the cannon salute, the diplomatic gifts secured in oilcloth against the sea spray. Young Pigafetta stands ready with his journal, eager to record every detail of this historic moment. Magellan has come to rely on Pigafetta's careful documentation, even if he sometimes finds the scholar's enthusiasm trying.
As they approach the shore, he studies the assembled crowd through narrowed eyes. Hundreds have gathered to witness their arrival, many adorned in the bright silks that speak of Zubu's wealth. His tactical mind notes defensive positions, counts armed men among the onlookers, even as his heart lifts at the thought of so many souls awaiting salvation.
The longboats grind against the sand with perfect timing. At his signal, the Trinidad's guns thunder their salute. Many in the crowd scatter in panic—good, let them feel the power that backs our faith—but his attention fixes on the small figure who stands calmly waiting.
Could this truly be the great Raja Humabon? The man is shorter than Magellan had imagined, round-faced, pot-bellied, with the amber-bronze complexion of an Extremaduran farmer, and an almost boyish appearance. Yet Magellan has learned in Malacca not to judge the indios by their seemingly ageless features—a trait he had discovered was common among their peoples. There is something in the raja's bearing, in his easy smile, that speaks of genuine authority.
Enrique steps forward to make the formal introductions, his familiar voice shifting smoothly between languages. Humabon approaches with open arms, and Magellan meets his embrace. This close, he can see the intricate patterns tattooed on the raja's skin, the gold ornaments that speak of his rank.
"Tell him," Magellan instructs Enrique, maintaining the formal captain's voice that has served him through countless diplomatic encounters, "that normally the royal banner comes ashore only with fifty men in armor and fifty musketeers." He pauses for Enrique's translation. "But such is my love for him that I bring it with a smaller force, trusting in his friendship."
The words are diplomatic ritual, but as he speaks them, Magellan feels their weight. Trust has never come easily to him. Yet here he stands, offering it to this heathen king. Guide me, Lord, in this great work.
Together they approach the platform he had ordered built the day before, its fresh-cut wood draped with fine hangings, palm fronds adding splashes of green to the formal scene. Everything arranged exactly as protocol demands: the velvet chairs positioned just so, cushions for the chiefs, mats for the lesser nobles. Like the pieces of a great game being moved into position by God's own hand.
The morning sun climbs higher as servants bring forward the coconut wine in gleaming brass vessels. Magellan had noted Enrique's careful explanation earlier—this ritual sharing of drink marks the beginning of all significant negotiations among these people. The platform's fresh-cut wood still carries its sharp scent, mixing with the salt breeze that stirs the palm fronds overhead.
He accepts the ornate cup, studying how the light plays on its hammered surface. Even their common vessels show intricate workmanship. Around them, the crowd has arranged itself in precise hierarchies that his time in Malacca has taught him to read: the tattooed principales on cushions, their complex patterns marking rank and achievement; the Moor trader watching with careful neutrality; Raja Colambu's familiar presence providing reassurance. Young Tupas sits beside his father, both men's faces revealing keen intelligence beneath their formal masks.
Mother of God, give me words to reach these souls. His gaze sweeps past the bare-breasted serving women—we shall teach them proper Christian modesty—to the larger crowd beyond. He has heard how they responded to Enrique's preaching, how readily they embraced the faith. Now they wait, hundreds strong, as each phrase will be translated and passed through their ranks like ripples on water.
He raises the cup in formal salute, remembering countless such ceremonies in Portuguese halls. But here, under the swaying palms, he prepares to paint a vision that will transform these seas forever...
Magellan takes a measured sip, following Enrique's careful instruction regarding the ritual. His tactical mind notes how Humabon watches for any sign of hesitation or disgust. Finding none, the raja's broad smile grows warmer.
"Tell them, Enrique," Magellan begins in his formal captain's voice, "of how Portugal first mastered the great ocean." He waits as Enrique translates, watching the words ripple through the crowd in multiple tongues. The rhythms of their languages remind him of the waves lapping at their ships.
"Prince Henry established schools of navigation, gathering the wisdom of both Christian and Moorish masters." His hand moves unconsciously to touch the cross at his throat. "New ships were designed – caravels that could sail closer to the wind than any vessel before. Every advance was kept secret, protected as carefully as your own pearl beds."
He notes how the principales lean forward at the mention of seafaring knowledge. Yes, these pintados understand the power of mastering the waves.
"Year by year, expedition by expedition, Portugal's ships pushed further. Around Africa, across the Indian Ocean, until finally..." He pauses, letting Enrique's translation catch up. "Until finally they reached Malacca."
At this, the Moor trader shifts slightly. Several of the principales exchange glances. They know this story. Good.
"A great trading port, as wealthy as Zubu. Defended by thousands. Yet it fell to just a few hundred Portuguese soldiers." He keeps his voice matter-of-fact, letting the implications sink in. "Because Portugal kept its knowledge secret. Its ships secret. Its plans secret."
Now he turns to face Humabon directly. "But Castile..." He straightens, feeling the weight of the red cross of Santiago on his chest. "Castile brings its knowledge in the light. Every expedition documented. Every discovery recorded. Every alliance formally witnessed."
He gestures to the banners snapping in the breeze. "Where Portugal works in shadows, Castile proclaims its power. Where Portugal hoards knowledge, Castile shares strength with its allies." His voice takes on the intensity that had carried his men across the vast ocean. "And what allies we find here! The pintados – whose tattoos proclaim their bravery, whose ships already command these waters!"
The principales sit straighter at this praise. Even Humabon's carefully neutral expression cannot hide a flash of pride.
"Imagine," Magellan continues, his voice dropping slightly as if sharing a confidence, "Castilian cannon and navigational arts joined with pintado courage and mastery of these seas." He waits as Enrique's words spread through the crowd. "From the Moluccas to the great ports of China..." He lets the vision hang in the air. "Two seafaring peoples, united in faith and purpose."
He touches the cross again, but studies Humabon's face, trying to decipher the meaning behind that constant smile. "God himself has guided us to this meeting. As he guided me when Portuguese pride forced me to seek truth in Castilian service." A calculated admission of his own history—but has it landed as intended? The raja's expression remains warmly enigmatic.
The breeze shifts, carrying the sharp scent of the sea. Soon all will change, he thinks. But for now, he waits, watching his words work through the crowd like the tide through channels. The raja's smile never wavers – gracious, welcoming, and utterly unreadable. Such ambiguity always unsettles him, but he takes comfort in the precise arrangement of the morning's ceremony, in the careful documentation that will record this historic moment.
Let God and King Carlos judge if I have chosen my words wisely. His hand moves to his sword hilt, then deliberately back to the cross at his throat. Whatever thoughts move behind that charismatic smile, the next move will be Humabon's.
***
"Gi-atay," you chuckle under your breath as the Kapitan's words settle over the gathering, amused at how he laid out a snare irresistible to you. It looks like this game won't end today.
This close, you study the man whose arrival promises such delicious possibilities – and immediately note the same rank odor that clings to all these foreigners, like meat left too long in the dark. He is not what you expected from the stories of his might. Though he stands slightly taller than you, he is shorter than most of his bearded companions. There is something peculiar about his gait – a slight drag of his right leg that he tries to mask with precise, measured steps. His face is weathered like old wood, marked with the kind of premature aging the Bendahara says is common among the Feringhi. Yet there is an intensity in his eyes that reminds you of Handuraw in her later years – that same consuming certainty that comes from communing with powerful diwata.
Most striking is his choice of pure white garments, probably meant as a display of status just as deliberate as your own golden ornaments and sacred tattoos. The color reminds you of Paraluman's binukot skin, that carefully preserved whiteness that marks those who consider themselves above common concerns. Yet where your people's marks of power are permanent – etched into flesh with blood and ink – his seem strangely temporary, as mutable as his shifting alliances between kings.
Your fingers brush Kamatayon's familiar grip. Seven days have passed since their ships entered your port, seven days since their slave and notaryo dared to refuse your rightful tribute. The memory of that humiliation burns anew – how you, Rajah Sarripada Humabon, the greatest ruler in the history of Sugbo, had to submit before a mere kitab and an ulipon. One signal to your bilanggô now would unleash your warriors. The datus around you are coiled tight as snakes, ready for the red harvest. Even with their iron shirts and lantakas, these forty foreigners would fall quickly to your hundreds.
The Kapitan, however, laid a bait sweeter than retribution. Subjugating the surrounding kingdoms, perhaps even challenging the sultanates themselves. Your mind races with possibilities: Johor, Brunei, all the wealth of the maritime kingdoms flowing through your port...
You also sense another force within you. Something has changed in your kalag since your marriage to Paraluman three years ago. Where once the thought of massacre would have sent thrilling fire through your veins, now you find yourself considering her path of patience. The desire for violence still coils within you, but it no longer commands your will as it once did. The little boy you locked away stirs in his boxes, whispering of peace, of power won through wisdom rather than blood.
Still, only fools trust without testing. You pause, considering your next move. But before you can speak, the Kapitan raises his hand in a gesture that silences even Enrike. Something shifts in his bearing – the rigid captain seeming to transform into something more. His voice carries that peculiar intensity you've observed in those possessed by powerful diwata.
Through Enrike's translation, his words pour forth with religious fervor: "The Lord Hesukristo has guided us across the great ocean to find you, Rajah Humabon. Among all the rulers of these islands, you have been chosen. You shall be the first to receive his light, and through you, all these lands shall know his glory."
The Kapitan's eyes burn with absolute conviction as he continues: "As the Almighty raised David from shepherd to king, so shall you rise above all other rulers. Those who accept your authority and embrace the true faith shall prosper. Those who resist..." He lets the threat hang unspoken.
You study the Kapitan's face as Enrike translates your careful response: "Tell your master that I embrace his vision and the power of Hesukristo." You note how the name alone makes the Kapitan's stern face soften with religious fervor. "But some of the datus may resist, being proud men who will bow to no one."
Your fingers tap lightly against Kamatayon's hilt as you watch the Kapitan's response unfold through Enrike's translation. The man's stern face grows animated as he summons your datus, his rigid posture and precise gestures reminding you startlingly of the Bendahara. The similarity becomes almost comical as he delivers what he clearly believes is a masterful show of force: "Unless they obey Humabon as their king, he would have them killed and would give their possessions to the king."
You almost choke on your tubâ. The absurdity of it – as if datus could be ordered about like ulipon, as if centuries of alliance and obligation could be erased by foreign threats. You catch Kulambô's eye, seeing your own amusement reflected there.
“Hilasa’s kagwang,” Kulambô exclaims. He then shifts to Waray-waray, his voice pitched for datu ears only. "Maupay nga tawo ini nga Kapitan, baga hin batâ nga nagpapakalalaki." What a simple man this Kapitan is, like a child playing at being strong.
"Pabay-i la, makikit-an naton kon hin-o it matuod nga hadi," you respond, matching Kulambô's tongue with the instinct of one who trades in many languages. Your tone carries layers of meaning that only those raised in the courts of datus would grasp. Let him be, for time will show who truly rules.
You watch the datus masterfully perform their submission, each one stepping forward with perfectly calibrated displays of humility. "We shall obey our supreme master in all things," they declare, their voices carrying exactly the right note of exaggerated reverence. The double edge of their words will be dulled by Enrike's translation, whether by choice or necessity.
The Kapitan receives their obeisance with solemn satisfaction, clearly pleased with what he sees as his diplomatic triumph. Like your brother lost in his systems of numbers and records, this man can read the surface of power but misses its deeper currents entirely. You hide your smile behind another sip of tubâ.
You lean forward slightly, maintaining your most gracious expression. Through Enrike, you pose what seems an innocent question: "My heart is moved by your promises of conquest, noble Kapitan. Yet even the smallest sultanate commands thousands of warriors. Brunei alone has hundreds of ships." You gesture to encompass their three vessels. "How can so few men fulfill such great visions?"
You watch carefully as the Kapitan draws himself up. Through Enrike, his reply carries the same rigid certainty you've observed in all his actions: "I shall return to Kastila, but will come again with such forces that I shall make you the greatest king of these regions, as you were the first to embrace Hesukristo."
You recall how Kulambô reported his boast that one of his armored warriors could defeat a hundred of yours. You hide your amusement – yet there is something peculiar in how he makes these claims. Unlike most boasting warriors, his exaggerations seem torn between his desire for greatness and what appears to be a fanatical commitment to truth.
You lift your hands to the sky in a gesture of reverent gratitude, a performance you've perfected over years of dealing with foreign merchants and their peculiar customs. "Great Kapitan," you say through Enrike, "my heart overflows with thanks for your generous promises." You pause, letting your voice take on the tone of earnest spiritual seeking that you've observed works so well with these visitors. "But how can my people and I truly learn the ways of Hesukristo if you leave us? Might some of your men remain to instruct us in the faith?"
The request seems perfectly reasonable – what devotee of Hesukristo could refuse such a plea for spiritual guidance? If he agrees, you gain valuable sources of intelligence about their ways. If he refuses... well, that too reveals something about the limits of his proclaimed brotherhood. And should circumstances change, captured foreigners can always be put to more profitable uses, whether in the slave markets or in the sacred groves where the diwata receive their tribute.
The Kapitan's response comes swiftly through Enrike's translation: He will leave two men to teach the faith, but in exchange, he desires two children of your chiefs to return with him to Kastila. They will learn the language of his people and return to share tales of his kingdom's greatness.
You consider his proposal carefully. The exchange of hostages – a practice as old as trade itself. His instinct for such diplomatic safeguards reveals much about his education in power...
Then insight strikes you like lightning. Everything suddenly fits together – his rigid formality, his awkward handling of his rank, Enrike's drunken tales of rejection by his former king. This man is a timawa! Just as you immediately sensed his scribe's noble blood, you now recognize the marks of the Kapitan's caste. A man of skill and courage, certainly, but not born to rule. His mastery of navigation and reputation for ruthlessness must have earned him this command despite his common birth.
The realization fills you with perverse delight. Your excessive displays of respect, your elaborate submission – these aren't just moves in a game, they're arrows finding their target. Every exaggerated gesture of reverence must be like sweet poison to a timawa unused to such deference. The image makes your mouth water: to bloat his liver1 with subservience until it bursts!
You raise your cup in another toast, letting your voice drip with honeyed respect. The serpent coils in pleasure, anticipating the slow, delicious unfolding of this game.
The Bendahara approaches quietly, waiting for the proper moment to interrupt. When you acknowledge him with a slight nod, he speaks in low tones: "Manoy, lunch is prepared for our visitors. Simple fare – fish, rice, and tubâ."
You catch the careful neutrality in his voice – your brother's way of expressing concern without seeming to criticize. He continues even softer, "All these grand promises of conquest and power, yet their daily hospitality drains our resources. Though they surely carry enough iron in those three ships to cover what we've spent…" A pause. "And half these men would fetch good prices in the right markets..."
You wave away his concerns with a languid gesture. The Bendahara thinks like a merchant, always counting costs against profits. But some games are worth playing regardless of immediate expense.
"Let them feast," you say, watching the Kapitan organize his men with rigid precision. Let the game continue.
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Gipaburot ang atay.