Chapter 12: Bautismo | Rajah Versus Conquistador
Afternoon of April 14th, 1521
The afternoon sun beats down on the square as Magellan rises from the feast, his white garments pristine despite the generous portions of fresh fish, rice, and palm wine. A proper Castilian commander might have found the native fare wanting, but his years in Malacca taught him to appreciate such bounty. The forty men who accompanied him this morning seem equally satisfied, their armor gleaming as they take their positions around the square.
His attention fixes on the great cross now dominating the center of the space. Properly positioned, properly blessed. Even here, at the edges of the known world, procedure must be maintained. The wood is local hardwood, carefully selected and worked by the ship's carpenter under his exacting supervision. No detail can be left to chance in this holy endeavor.
"Tell them, Enrique," he commands, his voice carrying the authority that has served him from Portuguese court to Castilian command, "that if they truly wish to become Christians as they have declared, certain things must be done. Exactly as I shall describe."
He watches the crowd's reaction as Enrique translates. Raja Humabon's perpetual smile remains unchanged, but there's something in his eyes—eagerness? Calculation? No matter. God's will shall be done, with or without the raja's full understanding.
"First," he continues, touching the cross at his throat, "they must burn their idols." His hand moves to his sword hilt, then deliberately back to the cross. "Every false idol must be destroyed, and crosses raised in their place." He remembers the stories of San Fernando, of how the saint-king had purified Castile of Moorish corruption. Let me be such an instrument here, O Lord.
Through Enrique, he demonstrates the proper way to make the sign of the cross. How like children they are, he thinks, watching them mimic his gestures. Yet did not Our Lord say we must become as little children? The thought surprises him with its tenderness.
"They must come to the cross daily," he continues. "Kneeling, with hands clasped, especially in the morning." He demonstrates the proper posture, ignoring the protest of his bad leg. Let them see how a Christian warrior humbles himself before God.
The raja and his nobles are quick to confirm their understanding. Too quick? But no – he sees genuine wonder in their faces as they study his white garments, chosen with careful symbolic intent. "Tell them," he instructs Enrique, "that I wear this white to show my sincere love for them." The garments' purity mirrors his own cristiano viejo blood, unsullied through generations—yet now, in an act of divine condescension, he opens his arms to these heathen children, adopting them into the family of Christ despite their lesser origins. The words feel strange on his tongue—he, who has always relied more on stern command than gentle persuasion. Yet they are true, he realizes. Somewhere between the dark days of mutiny and this peaceful square, something has changed in him.
When they say they know not how to respond to his sweet words, he feels an unfamiliar warmth in his chest. Is this what it means to be a father to one's people? Taking the raja's hand, he leads him to the baptismal platform. Everything is arranged exactly as it should be—the holy water blessed, the ritual words prepared, even the new names carefully chosen for maximum diplomatic impact.
"You shall be Don Carlos," he pronounces, "after my sovereign lord the emperor." He sees the raja straighten with pride at being named for so great a ruler. Let him learn to serve the crown as he learns to serve God. The prince becomes Don Fernando, after the emperor's brother. The king of Mazaua receives the name Juan. Another pintado chief is honored with Magellan's own name, Fernando. Even the Moor—God works in mysterious ways—becomes Cristóbal.
The baptisms proceed as Father Pedro moves through the ritual, his voice carrying across the square. Magellan watches from his position of authority, noting how Enrique assists the priest, translating the sacred words into the local tongue. Five hundred men before Mass – a triumph that would have delight even the great missionary saints.
An unfamiliar humility stirs in him as he observes God's work being done through such unlikely instruments. Father Valderrama—descendant of Jewish conversos, yet here he stands dispensing God's grace at the far edges of the world. And Enrique—a slave, a mere indio, yet his voice carries the holy words in ways these people can understand. How strange are Your ways, O Lord, that You choose the lowly to accomplish Your highest purpose.
Yet when Mass concludes and he invites the raja and chiefs to dine aboard the Trinidad, they decline. Some flicker of his old suspicion stirs, but he crushes it. Trust in God's plan. Their escort to the shore feels genuine enough, as do their embraces as the ships' cannons thunder a farewell salute.
Standing on the beach, watching the newly-made Christians return to their homes, Magellan clasps his rosary beads with his right hand. Mother of God, let this seed flourish. Let it be recorded that on this Sunday, the 14th of April in the year of Our Lord 1521, your Son gained five hundred souls in these distant seas.
The thought of his own role in this miracle fills him with a pride that he quickly tries to suppress as sinful. Yet surely God will forgive a soldier's pride in such a victory? Not won by sword or cannon, but by the cross itself.
Through proper procedure, proper documentation, proper ritual – these souls have been gathered into your fold, O Lord. Guide them now in your ways, as you have guided your servant to this distant shore.
***
From your lantay, you watch their boats return to the black ships through the golden light of sunset. The scene provokes an unexpected wave of amusement – did their Kapitan really attempt the most basic trap in negotiations? "Come dine aboard my ship," indeed. As if you hadn't used that same gambit dozens of times yourself – invite a rival to feast in your territory, then negotiate from a position of strength. Or capture them outright, if the situation demands.
Though perhaps he was sincere. These foreigners continue to surprise you with their peculiar mixing of cunning and naivety. The thought of the Bendahara's face when he learned they would need to provide the food for their own captivity – you can almost hear his exasperated sigh. The same sigh he gives when watching you spend resources on elaborate feasts and ceremonies. Your brother never fully grasped how power flows through such extravagances.
Your mind drifts back to their ceremony. Their male baylan was particularly fascinating – this "Father" Pedro with his gentle movements and eyes of steel. Where your baylan command through elaborate ritual and dramatic possession, he worked through precise, measured gestures. Each blessing delivered with the same careful attention whether to datu or slave. Even the way he touched each person's head with water – the exact same motion repeated hundreds of times, like a master knife-fighter practicing a killing stroke.
During what they call santamisa, Enrike explained the meaning behind their rituals. The contrast with your own sacred rites is striking. Where your baylan feed the diwata with chicken blood for minor blessings, pig blood for more significant requests, and the sacred liquid of slaves for the most powerful interventions, these foreigners use only liquor and bread. When you asked why such meager offerings would satisfy their diwata, Enrike's explanation was fascinating: their Hesukristo commanded this because his own sacrifice – some fifteen hundred years ago in a distant place called Herusalem – was already infinite. All other blood offerings are unnecessary, he claimed. They are simply reliving that one perfect sacrifice.
The participation in the ritual played out as you expected. Only you, Tupas, Kulambô and a few others from the delegation joined. Ban-Sôn joined as well, of course – that one would embrace any faith that opens new trading opportunities. Just like you, when it comes to power.
Most datus stayed away, unwilling to participate in a ritual meant for slaves. The very idea of sharing sacred rites with ulipon offended their sensibilities. Even those who saw the political advantages hesitated to lower themselves to what they saw as an event for commoners. You've seen the same reaction when Muslim traders suggest their datus pray alongside their slaves – that peculiar mix of horror and disdain that only the truly highborn can muster.
The Bendahara attended purely as your atubang, his suspicion of Malacca's destroyers evident in every careful movement, and refused to participate in the ritual. Your older wives and the other baylan were of course absent. And Paraluman, naturally, remained in her chambers with her maids – as did your devadasi, their carefully preserved skin safe from the sun's harsh dominion.
***
She summons you again that night, but not in her usual way. No servant with formal message, no ritual garments to don. Instead, she simply appears at your door like a ghost in white, her presence as quiet as moonlight on water.
"Walk with me," she says in Melayu, breaking the usual pattern of your encounters. Something in her voice makes the serpent stir uneasily within you.
You follow her to your private garden where foreign flowers from distant ports bloom in the darkness. The night breeze carries mixed scents – jasmine from the sultanates, spices from the Ming, and beneath it all, the eternal salt-tang of your port. She seats herself on a stone bench, leaving space for you.
"Did you watch today's ritual?" you ask, already knowing the answer. The women of your household saw everything from behind their screens, as they always do.
"I saw more than a ritual," she says. Her voice carries that same quality you've heard before, when she speaks of the old prophecies. "I saw what the baylan cannot – a power that transforms instead of consuming."
You almost laugh. "Power is power, aking mahal. Whether it wears our baylan's tattoos or their baylan's robes, it still feeds on blood."
"Does it?" She turns to face you, and even in the darkness you can see the intensity in her eyes. "Their diwata chose to become like a slave, to be sacrificed rather than demand sacrifice. The baylan speak of controlling the serpent's hunger through ritual bloodshed. But what if there was a way to break its power entirely?"
Something shifts inside you at her words – not the serpent's usual writhing, but a different motion, like a key turning in a long-locked door. You push the sensation away.
"A clever trick," you say, but your voice lacks its usual certainty. "They simply moved the sacrifice to some distant place and time, yet still use it to bind followers to their will."
"Like we binukot," she says softly, "who seem to submit but actually preserve something greater." Her hand finds yours in the darkness. "I heard the Malaccan preach about their holy mother. She too remained hidden, preserved like a pearl, until she was to bear the awaited king. I understood then why we binukot keep ourselves in shadow – we are waiting for our appointed time, just as she waited for hers."
You feel it again – that strange stirring deep within, where the boy has been locked away in boxes within boxes. Her words seem to echo in those depths, awakening something you thought long buried.
"I wish to receive their water ritual," she says simply. "Not in public spectacle like today's ceremony, but in darkness, as befits a binukot. The other women will join me – my maids, the devadasi, all of us who live in twilight."
"These are women's matters," you say dismissively, the serpent trying to diminish what it cannot control. "Let the Kapitan deal with matters of power and—"
"This is not about their power or yours," she says with that peculiar authority that even the serpent cannot resist. "This is about what was prophesied – about a power that makes mighty warriors lay down their blades, that transforms datus into willing servants not through force but through..." she pauses, searching for the word in your mother tongue, "through gugma."
That word strikes something in you. Suddenly you're overwhelmed by a memory – your mother's hands, gentle on your fevered brow, her voice singing softly in the darkness. The boy in his boxes stirs more strongly, and for a moment, just a moment, you feel what it might be like to be free of the serpent's weight.
The sensation terrifies you, but it also fills you with a wild joy different from the serpent's destructive ecstasy. This is more like the freedom you find in Paraluman's ritual submission, but deeper somehow, touching parts of you that even she has never reached.
"Very well," you hear yourself say, and your voice sounds strange to your own ears – neither the rajah's command nor the ritual slave's submission, but something new. "I will send for their baylan."
She rises, bending to kiss your forehead like a mother blessing a child. As she turns to leave, she pauses and looks at you with eyes that seem to hold centuries of binukot wisdom. You raise your eyebrows slightly – that small gesture of vulnerability you show only to her. Her lips curve in that secret smile that has gentled your darkest moods before she speaks again, this time in her own tongue: "Sa takdang panahon, isang sanggol ang maghahari, hindi sa pamamagitan ng dugo, kundi sa pamamagitan ng pag-ibig na walang hanggan." In the appointed time, a child will rule as king, not through blood, but through love everlasting. She continues in Melayu, "Perhaps he is closer than we think."
You remain in the garden long after she's gone, feeling the boy shift restlessly in his prison as something ancient begins to crack.
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