Chapter 3: Submission, Part I | Rajah Versus Conquistador
April 8th, 1521
There is only one sensible response to yesterday's opening move. They displayed their strength with vulgar forthrightness.1 They promised to use that strength against you if you close your doors, and against your enemies if you welcome them. Through the reputation of Sugbo, they must have understood that you are more than a mere warlord, and would see the invitation behind their little provocation. The only move is to know them: their weaknesses, their desires, and the true extent of the strengths they claim. It is through understanding that you can defeat your enemies and make the best use of your allies.
Your instincts reminded you of one of the first lessons in the Way of the Twelve Knives, as taught by Lapulapu: when your enemy attacks with aggression, feign submission. Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance. When a wild boar charges, the experienced hunter does not meet its fury head-on. Instead, he steps away from its path of attack, letting it feel as if it has won against a weaker creature, before tracking the proud beast through its own heavy footprints. Similarly, when facing an aggressive opponent, the wise datu allows his enemy's pride to blind him. Let him believe his displays of power have cowed you. Let him mistake your patience for fear, your calculated hospitality for weakness. The python holds on lightly to its prey as it lets the doomed animal exhaust its strength struggling against what feels like a powerless embrace. Only when the victim's movements grow weak does the serpent reveal the true power of its suffocating hold.
Always wary of your own blindness, you asked your brother, Isagani, to act as your dark mirror after yesterday's encounter. The Bendahara, as is his way, responded with unsentimental precision, though you could hear the shadow of Malacca's fall in his voice. Ten years ago, he watched these same bearded and armored men reduce the greatest port in your seas to ashes. Their lantakas were not mere symbols of status but weapons that could shatter even the strongest walls of the sultan's fort – walls that had stood for centuries. The thunder of their cannons still haunts his dreams. These visitors were not like the traders from Gujarat or Siyama who could be played against each other through careful manipulation of port duties and trading rights. Their ships, though few, could blockade your port and starve your people. The Bendahara argued that genuine alliance, not subtle manipulation, might be the wiser course.
You indulge in the satisfaction of having turned your younger brother's gifts – so different from yours – to your advantage. The Bendahara's commitment to duty and principle has always been a source of fascination to you. If he had your heart, he would be consumed by the desire for vengeance against these visitors who laid waste to his beloved Malacca. Yet he suppresses that yearning for retribution to focus on what is best for Sugbo and his beloved son Tupas. His conviction that the Almighty charts one true righteous path makes him, in some ways, as predictable as the tides. There's an almost mechanical certainty to how he will choose duty over passion, order over chaos, the greater good over personal satisfaction. Such rigid adherence to principle would be a crippling disadvantage for you – a man beyond good and evil, who plays even the diwatas against each other. Yet in the Bendahara, this very predictability becomes a powerful tool, like a well-crafted rudder that keeps your ship steady through turbulent waters. Your brother's unshakeable moral compass complements your own unhinged freedom, though you sometimes wonder if he knows how thoroughly you've used his righteousness for your own ends.
You decided to leave both options open. Your actions will depend on what you learn about them in the coming days. If they truly possess the might they claim, then perhaps the Bendahara is right – a genuine alliance could bring unprecedented wealth and power to Sugbo. But if their strength is more show than substance, or if you discover exploitable weaknesses, then you can proceed with your game. Like skilled knife fighters testing each other's defenses with light probing cuts, you will use these initial encounters to gauge their true measure. The Bendahara can continue exploring the path of honest friendship while you simultaneously lay the groundwork for their potential destruction. Either way, the key is to maintain the appearance of eager hospitality while gathering intelligence. You have asked your allied datus to welcome them warmly, ply them with food and drink, and report everything they learn. You instructed Tupas to ensure the devadasi treat the visitors with special attention, particularly their officers. Even now, you are preparing to host them in your own home, where careful observation and subtle questioning can begin to reveal the true outlay of the game ahead.
You made your move before today's sun rose. You sent word through your paragahin that you welcome their friendship. At dawn, he sailed to the black ships and relayed the message to the Malaccan. Now, as your port begins its day and the sun casts long shadows, you await their response on the royal lantay, the elevated bamboo platform where you hold court. The same pair who came yesterday – the bearded foreigner and the Malaccan slave – approach with measured steps through the sand.
The light filtering through the coconut leaves casts shifting patterns on the ground, reminding you of the ever-changing game of power. Yesterday, you ordered your timawa and ulipon to get back to their duties in the port, your farms, or in the sea. You don't want misinterpretations of today's delicate conversation. The only ones you asked to be present are your childhood crew and most-trusted datus: the Bendahara, Kulambô, and Sula, now the ruler of north Mactan. Tupas is also with you. Your bilanggô is close by. His presence is a reminder that while you are a port rajah, you rule the tattooed warriors feared as far as the kingdoms of the Ming and the Vijayanagara.
You remain seated on the lantay’s cushioned mat as the bearded man and the Malaccan approach. Your paragahin leads them to their designated places – close enough to hear their words, but maintaining the proper distance that status demands.
You give a slight nod, granting them permission to speak. You put on a friendlier demeanor this time around.
"My master sends his warmest greetings to your highness," says the Malaccan, his hands still pressed together in respect. You notice their manners have improved significantly since their first visit. The paragahin must have given them some more instruction when he visited them earlier today.
You gesture for them to sit and signal your paragahin to offer them tubâ. "Please, share your names before we discuss business," you say warmly in Melayu.
Through the Malaccan translator, the bearded man introduces himself. "I am Hernandodelatore, the notaryo of this expedition."
"Notaryo?," you ask the Malaccan.
He replies, "Senyordelatorre was appointed by our king to witness and document all agreements between his masters and rulers like your highness." The notaryo must be similar to the kitab of the Malaccan sultanate, the court's official scribe. You don't have a kitab in your port. It is the Bendahara that carries this role.
"And I am Enrike, my lord, personal servant of the Kapitanheneral and the only translator of his crew." The ulipon’s self-assured tone grates your ears.
"Kapitanheneral is the name of your leader?"
"His name is Fernawjemagalyens, my lord, and his office is Kapitanheneral." The ulipon explains how his master is more than a laksamana.2 "Our king gave him not only authority over ships and warriors, but to represent his majesty in speaking with rulers like your highness, to make peace or war, to establish trade, and to bring new peoples under their king's protection."
"What shall I call your master?"
The Malaccan explains how that his master is to be addressed as "Kapitan" just as you are addressed as rajah.
"Are there more than one Kapitan among you?"
"There is a laksamana for each ship, my lord, but the Kapitan rules them all," Enrike replies.
This makes this game a lot simpler.
You take a sip of tubâ and take a glance at the Bendahara.
"Is your Kapitan one of the Feringhi3 who destroyed Malacca?" you then ask the visitors, studying both men's reactions carefully.
A flicker of tension crosses Enrike's face – barely perceptible, but you've learned to read such subtle signals. The notaryo remains impassive, unable to understand your Melayu.
"My lord," Enrike responds carefully, "there are two great kings in the far West. Rajah Manwel rules the Portuges who attacked Malacca. They are..." he pauses, choosing his words, "They are not friends of my master."
You notice how the Malaccan's posture has shifted slightly. Though still deferential, there's a new energy in his voice as he continues: "My master once served Rajah Manwel, but the king did not recognize the Kapitan's genius. Now my master serves a far greater king – Rajah Karlos, King of Kastila and Master of the Western Seas, Conqueror of the Moros, Heir to the Sesares of Roma, and Most Pious Defender of the True Faith."
The grandiloquent titles roll off Enrike's tongue with practiced reverence. You study the reactions around you. The Bendahara's face remains carefully neutral, but you catch the slight narrowing of his eyes at the mention of Malacca. Your brother may advocate for alliance, but the fall of the great port clearly still haunts him.
Tupas, your nephew, leans forward slightly, clearly captivated by these tales of distant powers. The boy's enthusiasm could be useful – young minds are often more open to new ways.
Kulambô and Sula exchange knowing glances. They've seen enough port politics to recognize the familiar dance of competing powers. Their silent communication reminds you that any move you make with these visitors will ripple through your existing alliance networks.
The bearded man then says a few words to the Malaccan, probably a command based on his expression and body language.
With some hesitation, Enrike bring the conversation back to their business, "My lord, Senyordelatorre asks if the good rajah would like him to witness your agreement to the Kapitan's proposal."
You hold your reply and let the silence turn awkward. You're curious how these men would react.
The two visitors look at each other like lost boys. Enrike then stutters apologetically, "my lord..."
You interrupt the ulipon to deliver your submission, "does the Kapitan wish that I pay tribute to your king?" you ask, your voice steady.
After Enrike translates your words, the notary responds that no, the Kapitan does not seek tribute – he wishes only to trade exclusively with you.
You consider this carefully. The terms are surprisingly favorable, given their show of force yesterday. You decide to test their sincerity with one of your people's most sacred customs.
"If the Kapitan truly wishes to be my friend," you say deliberately, "then let us make a blood compact. He will give a drop of blood from his right arm, and I shall do the same."
You watch their reactions as Enrike relays this to the bearded man. The notaryo quickly confirms that the Kapitan would agree to this.
You press further, mentioning that it is customary for visiting captains to exchange gifts. You ask whether the Kapitan or you should begin this exchange.
Through Enrike, the notaryo suggests that since this is your custom, you should make the first offering. You nod in acceptance.
You feel the familiar pleasure of a well-played move. These foreigners may have their lantakas and black ships, but here in your waters, they must swim in currents of your choosing. Each tradition they embrace becomes another current to guide their course – whether toward peace or destruction remains to be seen.
Hunger nudges at you, a subtle reminder that it's nearly lunchtime, as you nod to your paragahin to signal the end of the conversation. The usual custom is to invite visitors for a meal, but further discussion would only risk the release of information that could change the terms of your agreement. You are also looking forward to spending time alone with your old crew. Your paragahin instructs the Malaccan, and they take their leave.
"My master eagerly awaits your visit," Enrike says with another pressed-palm gesture. "When would the good rajah prefer to perform the blood compact?"
You glance at the sun's position. "Tell your Kapitan I shall send him gifts tomorrow morning." You pause thoughtfully. "The blood compact is a sacred rite. I shall discuss this matter with the baylan." You forgive the inordinately confident ulipon for his ignorance, but there is no way that Rajah Sarripada Humabon will visit the Kapitan for the blood compact. The Kapitan shall be the one to come to you!
The two men bow again and begin backing away. Your paragahin moves to escort them back to their boat. They will be given bahaw4 from last night a few jars of tubâ to bring to the Kapitan as a taste of what is to come.
You watch them retreat to their ship with satisfaction. Their quick adoption of your customs suggests either genuine respect or calculated deference – both can be useful. Your fingers absently trace the handle of Kamatayon at your waist as you consider the moves ahead. The blood compact will bind the Kapitan to you through both oath and ritual. Whether that bond becomes a cord of friendship or a noose will unfold in the next few days.
As the black boat glides back to their ships, Kulambô breaks into his usual laughter, "That was easy, bai! Kayata, we should have more visitors like these."
The Bendahara spoke in his measured way, "Too easy. We need to understand why they would offer exclusive trade without demanding tribute. Either they are desperate, or there is something we're missing."
You turned to Sula, who had been silent throughout the meeting. "What news from Lapulapu?"
"My uncle sends his greetings, bai. He spoke of how the seasons change but the tides remain constant."
You suppress a flash of irritation at this veiled reminder of the old arrangement. Sula's words carry their meaning like a knife wrapped in silk – gentle in delivery but sharp in intent.
The ancient agreement that binds the four kingdoms is both your strength and your burden. As rajah of Sugbu, you control the most profitable port in the region. Foreign merchants from distant shores bring their wealth to your domain, enriching your coffers through tribute and trade. But ports need protection. The waters around Sugbu are treacherous not just from nature's whims but from raiders and rival powers.
The fortune of your port rests on an alliance forged by your father – a web of obligations binding four kingdoms. Sula's domain guards the northern approaches. Your cousin Mandawe watches the same waters from the Sugbu side. And Lapulapu... the old warrior's fortress in Mactan stands like a sentinel before your harbor, his feared warriors keeping the southern and eastern seas free from pirates and hostile powers.
For this protection, you send shares to your allies. "Shares," you always insist on calling them, though everyone knows they are tribute by another name. Sula and your cousin receive reasonable amounts. But Lapulapu... the old datu of South Mactan demands – and receives – nearly half of what your port collects. You've always found it galling that your former teacher takes such a large portion, justified by his age, his martial reputation, and his history with your long gone father.
You study Sula's expression. Unlike his uncle, he has always been diplomatic in these matters. His subtle reminder is as much about preserving his own smaller share as it is about carrying Lapulapu's message. He is your old friend, but he is also a ruler. The arrival of these foreign ships with their wealth of trade goods has clearly made your allies eager for their portion of the spoils.
Reminded again by your hunger, you tell your head servant to prepare lunch and more tubâ for you and the other datus. There should be enough time to lay out the plan in response to the new agreements before the food arrives, so you can spend the rest of the afternoon not as rulers of men but simply as old friends drinking, singing, and laughing like the old days.
In his excitement, Tupas forgets his place and cuts through the silence. "Tatay," he says to the Bendahara in Melayu, "did you notice how they defer to writing? Just like in Johor! Even their slave carries himself like a kitab."
You study your nephew's enthusiasm. The boy has been away from Sugbo far too long. Like a green branch bent to follow the sun, his mind has been shaped by foreign ways. This could be either weakness or strength, depending on how you direct it.
"And their insistence on making everything official through documents," Tupas continues, "It's exactly how the Feringhi conducted themselves in the sultanate-"
"Dodong," you interrupt, addressing Tupas with the familiar term for young men, "you seem to know much about these visitors."
The boy catches himself, suddenly aware he's been speaking out of turn. The shift in his posture shows his training – at least the Johorese court taught him proper deference, even if they filled his head with foreign notions. He apologizes in the mother tongue, but with an unmistakable Johorese accent.
Since the fall of Malacca ten years ago, the once-great sultanate's power and influence have been dispersed across several successor states. Johor, where Tupas spent most of his time, is one of the most prominent among these. But it's not alone in carrying on Malacca's legacy.
The sultanates of Perak and Pahang have also risen from Malacca's ruins, each claiming a portion of its former glory and trade networks. To its north, Aceh in Sumatra has grown in prominence, asserting itself as a major Islamic power and trading hub. To your south, Sulu has grown more powerful, as seen by their more frequent slave raids in the domains of the Bisayâ datus. Even further afield, Brunei on Borneo has expanded its influence, benefiting from the power vacuum left by Malacca's fall.
The Bisayâ datus have been maneuvering to send their sons and to marry their daughters into the ruling families of these new centers of power. It is a great honor to have been a guest in any of these sultanates, so it is not surprising that Tupas would flaunt his ties to Johor in the way he spoke. You are forgiving of young people's unsophisticated display of stature, because you were once like this. They will learn to be more subtle as they grow older.
But Tupas's accent is of course an irresistible target for Kulambô. "Ngilngiga5 this boy, sounds just like the sultan of Malacca," speaking in a mix of Sugbuanon and Melayu, aping Tupas and the other young datus.
"My sincerest apologies, uncle. I'm still getting the hang of Sugboanon after many years abroad," he responds to Kulambô, mixing formal Sugbuanon with the slang that warriors use among themselves.
You respond, "Dong Tupas, you need to master the language of your people if you are to lead them."
You have nine daughters but no sons, so a few years ago it was agreed that Tupas shall be prepared to succeed you and was married to Inday, your eldest. Once it was assured that his son would succeed the throne, the Bendahara worked even harder to grow the wealth and renown of the port. You realized long ago that this is how the great rajahs and sultans rule their dominions. Warlords like Lapulapu rule mostly by fear, so their kingdoms never grow beyond a few hundred subjects. Great kings rule through desire. Seek the gifts of your datus, then uncover their desires. With this knowledge, you can steer their lives for the sake of your greatness.
Tupas replies, "Yes, uncle! In fact, I have memorized several of your poems."
You smile. What he sees as your approval is actually amusement at his crude attempt at flattery. And he addressed you as his uncle instead as his rajah. The kid is not as smart as his father.
He turns to Kulambô. "Uncle, I noticed that you used 'bai'. Did you know that just like the word 'rajah,' our ancestors adopted 'bhai' from the Majahapit Empire or maybe even the Srivijaya Empire?!"
The young man continues before Kulambô could respond, "'Rajah' comes from the sanskrit 'rājā,' while 'bhai' comes from the sanskit 'bhrātṛ,' which means 'brother.' While I was in the capital of the Majapahit, I felt right at home because everyone was calling me 'bhai.' Isn't that amazing, uncle?!"
"Yes, that's quite amazing," replies Kulambô, while giving you a knowing look. The kid is smart, but in the wrong way.
The Bendahara makes his move. "Manoy, would you like to have Tupas lead the visit to the Kapitan? Being your successor, he has the authority they would respect. More importantly, he understands their world better than any of us."
Before you can respond, your brother continues with the careful precision that marks his speech when presenting his schemes, "In Johor, we saw how the Feringhi dealt with the sultanate. They respect writing and records above all else. They believe that words written on paper hold more truth than words spoken face to face."
"Is that why you had your son learn their strange womanly arts instead of the Way of the Twelve Knives?" Kulambô asks, with a jesting and mocking undertone.
"The world is changing, uncle," Tupas says eagerly. "The Feringhi have conquered Malacca because they master both the sword and the pen. Their scribes record everything – their battles, their trades, even their prayers. Did you know their baylan can speak to their god only by reading from special books?"
You notice how your brother allows his son to speak, carefully observing your reaction. The boy continues, "Their weapons may seem powerful, but it is their records that truly rule the seas. Every ship, every trade, every port must be written in their books. Those who resist..."
He trails off, perhaps remembering the fall of Malacca. You recall the rumors – how the great sultanate's ports were blockaded, its trade routes severed, its allies turned against it one by one. Not through battle, but through papers and agreements.
"And what rituals do they perform?" you ask, letting curiosity color your voice. Having been trained by the baylan, you are particularly interested in how these foreigners commune with their invisible powers. "How do they ensure good fortune in battle and trade?"
The boy's eyes light up at the chance to display his knowledge. "Uncle, in Johor I learned that the Almighty needs no blood sacrifice. The followers of the Prophet Muhammad have shown that prayer alone, performed five times daily facing the holy city of Mecca, is sufficient to-"
"And these visitors?" you interrupt, noting how the Bendahara tenses slightly. "I hear they are enemies of the followers of Muhammad."
"Yes, uncle. The merchants in Johor speak of their strange rituals. They say that their baylan – who are all men! – perform a ceremony where they transform wine into blood and bread into flesh. It is the blood and flesh of their diwata who chose to sacrifice himself and die like a slave! Can you imagine a diwata who would do such a thing? The merchants say these people are even more zealous than the followers of Muhammad. They seek to spread their ways to all the kingdoms of the earth with the written word and the sword, and-"
"Dong," you interrupt your nephew, "find out for yourself."
You place your right hand on his shoulder and tell him, as if conferring a great honor, "Tomorrow, you shall lead the delegation and visit the leader of our visitors."
The Bendahara speaks quickly, "Manoy, you are right to give Tupas the chance to prove himself. These visitors claim to come from beyond the big eastern sea. Let him speak their language of paper and records. If they truly represent a powerful king as they claim, we must learn to play their game."
You turn to Kulambô. "Bai, please join the group as well, since you have won the friendship of their leader." He raises the drinking cup while bowing slightly in agreement.
"And what message shall we send them?" asks the Bendahara.
You smile, remembering the times you unlocked the secret to your enemy's defeat by loosening their tongues with tubâ or bewildering their minds with the beauty of your courtesans or the glitter of jewelry. "Tell them we are honored by their visit and wish to learn more of their powerful king. Tell them that I shall be welcoming them with a tribute of gold. Have the women prepare a feast worthy of such distinguished guests."
"Tupas, remember," the Bendahara makes sure his son gets the meaning of your words, "wine, women, or gold."
"Yes, 'tay, I understand," Tupas responds. Even before the start of your reign, you and the Bendahara have used this classification for your allies and enemies. Everyone has a weakness. For most men, it is one of these three. Victory in battle depends not only on your skill in fighting, but in your knowledge of your enemy, especially of their key weakness.
The food arrives along with more tubâ. As Kulambô launches into his usual tales, you think about the moves ahead. Young Tupas will make an excellent probe – his eagerness to impress and his foreign education will encourage these visitors to speak freely. Let them believe they've won your submission. Let them grow comfortable in your port's embrace. Time will reveal whether they become true allies or merely the latest to feed the serpent's hunger.
***
In his cabin, Magellan stands before his charts, savoring a moment of private triumph. The heathen king has submitted, as is proper. As is inevitable. Just as his calculations about this passage have proven correct, despite all who doubted.
He remembers kneeling before King Manuel of Portugal, presenting his carefully documented proposals. Once, twice, three times he had come with his maps and calculations, each time with more precise details, more compelling arguments. And three times he had been dismissed—the limping, low-born hidalgo6 too proud to know his place.
That final audience still burns in his memory. When he knelt to kiss the king's hands, as custom dictated, Manuel turned away, concealing his hands beneath his cloak. A deliberate humiliation, witnessed by all the sneering nobles of the Portuguese court.
But now...
The wealthiest port in these seas will soon be bound to the crown's interests. To his interests. His quill moves across the logbook with careful precision, documenting this latest victory. Every detail must be recorded properly—how the raja offered submission, how he proposed a blood compact, how eager they were to embrace the crown's protection.
A momentary unease passes through him at the memory of the blood ritual with Colambu days earlier—the mingling of his cristiano viejo7 blood with that of an indio. He had justified it then as necessary for survival, a diplomatic concession when their supplies were depleted and the men weakened. But the thought of that foreign blood entering his veins still troubles him in quiet moments. Was such a sacrifice of blood purity truly worth the provisions it secured? He pushes the doubt away. The Church teaches that baptism washes all clean; soon enough, these heathens would be brought to Christ, their blood sanctified by faith. Until then, he must bear this small contamination as a soldier bears a wound received in holy service.
Let them come with their barbaric ceremonies. He will transform their pagan submission into proper vassalage. Everything according to procedure. Everything documented with the same meticulous care that Portugal had scorned.
He touches the crucifix at his throat, feeling the weight of his responsibility. King Carlos has recognized what Portugal could not—that true greatness comes not from birth but from skill. From hard work. From results. From the rigid discipline that had carried him across the great ocean while others doubted, that had crushed mutiny and starvation, that had brought him at last to these wealthy shores.
Tomorrow he will begin calculating the exact position of these islands, adding precise details to his charts. He will succeed where others have failed. He will find the passage that Portugal had deemed impossible. And when word reaches Europe of his triumph, when the spices of these islands enrich Spanish coffers...
Let Manuel hear of how the hidalgo he spurned now commands the greatest port in these seas. Let him learn how the man he had humiliated now brings kings and rajas to submit to Castillian authority.
For King Carlos, who has seen his worth. For God, who has guided his calculations. And for the vindication of everything Portugal had denied him.
He allows himself a small, tight smile. Already he can see how this will be recorded in the ship's official log. Another victory for King Carlos, another step toward his destiny. Everything properly documented. Everything precisely as it should be.
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Wala’y batasan.
The Laksamana was a high-ranking naval commander in Austronesian polities, responsible for coastal defense and maritime warfare.
Feringhi was a term used across Asia to refer to Europeans, particularly the Portuguese, derived from the Arabic Farang and the Persian Farangi.
Bahaw is a Visayan term referring to leftover or cold food, most commonly rice but also other dishes that have been kept from a previous meal.
Literally "cloyingly oily," idiomatically "impressive."
Hidalgo was a Spanish title for a lesser noble, derived from hijo de algo ("son of something"), often landless and seeking fortune through military service or exploration. The Portuguese equivalent is fidalgo, but for consistency, we use only the Spanish term in this book.
Cristiano viejo (Old Christian) was a term in 16th-century Spain referring to Christians of “pure” lineage, meaning those without Jewish or Muslim ancestry. This distinction was important in the Spanish caste system, particularly under the limpieza de sangre (purity of blood) laws, which granted higher social status to cristianos viejos over conversos (converted Jews and Muslims) and their descendants.