Chapter 6: The Captain's Tears | Rajah Versus Conquistador
Morning of April 9th, 1521
You sit in the shaded gallery of your payag, where the morning breeze carries both the salt of the sea and the sweet ferment of tubâ. Everything went according to plan. Even better than planned. The submission was a quiet affair, unlike the grand spectacle of your first meeting with the visitors. The lack of witnesses was deliberate. The Bendahara will ensure that only one story shall spread: the wise rajah has secured a new ally, the king who defeated the sultan of Malacca, and this new friendship will usher in greater prosperity and power to Sugbo.
The tubâ flows freely, as it always does. The serpent has grown ever and ever stronger in your mind, that you need the bitter-sweet liquid's magic to lessen its grip. Your cup bearer knows to keep it coming – harvest from dawn for the morning, from noon for the afternoon. Power is never without cost.
Beyond the gallery, you can see your port alive with activity. Traders haggle over measures of rice and lengths of cloth. Slaves load cargo onto waiting vessels. The tide is high, bringing with it the familiar orchestra of creaking wood, splashing waves, and shouting sailors. Above it all, those three black ships loom like strange birds from beyond the horizon.
This morning, the paragahin brought food and wine to the Kapitan. You sent Kulambô as well, since he had won the friendship of the Kapitan – even sealed it with blood. Ban-Sǒn, the Hokkien merchant from Siyama, requested to join the delegation. He has shown himself to be a trustworthy bearer of sea-wealth across years of commerce in your port – a sukî – so you let him.
When they came back around noon, they reported that the Kapitan had put on quite a show. He had one of his men dress in their armor, the metal shells that cover them from neck to toe. The merchant was impressed – he had seen warriors wearing pieces of metal armor before, but never anything like this.
Kulambô relayed how the Kapitan noticed the merchant's reaction and spoke to him through the Malaccan. His words were carefully chosen, like a dealer showing his finest silk. The armor, he said, was like his friendship – protective and nurturing to allies, but devastating to enemies.
Kulambô mentioned how the Kapitan's tone changed when he learned that Ban-Sǒn followed the teachings of Mohammad. The Kapitan's reaction to the merchant's faith stirred your curiosity. The stories of Malacca's fall ten years ago and the harsh rule of the Feringhi since then had taught you of their deep hatred for the followers of the Prophet. Yet in this case, the Kapitan seemed to have been moved not by anger but by a different spirit. You resolved to find out more about this diwata.
Kulambô, ever the performer, reenacted the whole scene for you, complete with an exaggerated portrayal of the merchant's reaction. Your mind was already racing ahead. The Kapitan clearly understood the value of spectacle in diplomacy. His demonstration with the armor was meant to convey both threat and protection – much like your own displays of power.
Through the haze of mid-morning heat, you watch the small boats ferry your delegation to the black ships. From your shaded position on the shore, they look like toys against those massive hulls. The serpent stirs within you as you observe the scene with the calculated interest of a master player studying his opponent's board.
You note how the Kapitan positions his ships – the careful spacing, the way they're anchored to maintain clear firing lines while protecting each other's flanks. Even at rest, they display the same disciplined coordination you saw in reports of their morning drills. Such rigid order speaks of a leader who prizes control above all else.
As your men climb aboard the largest vessel, you think of how the great pythons of the mountains will sometimes allow smaller prey to approach them, knowing that patience yields richer rewards than immediate striking. You've played this game countless times yourself – the careful dance of power masked by ceremony and hospitality.
You retreat further into the shade, letting the familiar burn of tubâ warm your throat. Soon your men will return with fresh insights into these visitors' strengths and weaknesses. For now, you can appreciate the beauty of the game as it unfolds, like watching master knife fighters testing each other's defenses with light, probing cuts.
***
The red velvet of the captain's chair feels warm against his back as Magellan studies the assembly before him. Everything arranged exactly as protocol demands—himself elevated on the quarterdeck, Zubu’s principalia on leather chairs, the others on mats upon the planks below. The bright morning sun beats down on the deck, and the red cross of Santiago on his chest gleams in the tropical light. A salt breeze ripples across the water between ship and shore.
The day had begun auspiciously. Raja Colambu arrived at first light with the promised provisions—fresh water, goats, pigs, rice, and various fruits in abundance. The king of Mazaua had also brought an unexpected gift: an introduction to the merchant from Siam, who spoke eagerly of trade routes stretching from the Moluccas to distant Canton. Magellan had one of his men demonstrate their armor and various hand weapons—Colambu with his booming laugh expressing admiration for its invincibility, the merchant nodding with careful appreciation that spoke of greater familiarity with European power. Through Enrique, he had made sure they understood: the armor was like his friendship—protective and nurturing to allies, but devastating to enemies.
Now, as the formal delegation assembles before him, Magellan recognizes how each element of the morning's seemingly casual encounters was orchestrated to precede this more serious parley.
Like the Moorish emissaries he had encountered in Morocco, this delegation presents a careful balance of threat and civilization. The king's nephew and his father sit in the manner of Malaccan nobility, their refined silk garments and careful posture marking them as men familiar with great courts. This is not some petty island chieftain's envoy, but a calculated display of connection to the great trading powers.
The merchant from Siam represents another piece in Humabon's careful positioning. His presence suggests access to the rich trading networks throughout this region. The other noblemen scatter the deck like living documents of their people's strength, their tattooed torsos telling stories of battles and victories that Pigafetta's careful pen has been recording. The now familiar presence of Raja Colambu is a reassuring counterpoint to the formal proceedings.
A shrewd move, sending such a balanced delegation—military might, trading connections, and diplomatic sophistication all represented. The message is clear: the ruler of Zubu offers either valuable friendship or formidable opposition. The king's nephew—young, earnest-faced—sits with perfect posture, though Magellan notes how his eyes keep straying to the armed guards he has deliberately positioned at the corners. Yes, let them see Spanish discipline, Spanish might. "Our weapons are soft toward our friends, harsh toward our enemies," Magellan had told them through Enrique. The words echo in his mind now, familiar as prayer—a language of power that needs no translation in any port from Morocco to Malacca.
"Ask them," he instructs Enrique, "whether it is their custom to speak in secret or in public." His voice carries the stern authority of the Captain-General, honed through years of command. "And whether the prince and the king of Mazaua have authority to make peace."
Their answer comes swiftly: they speak in public, and yes, they have authority. Good. All in accordance with proper procedure. He speaks then of peace, his words following the careful pattern established in countless negotiations. He takes comfort in the familiar ceremony of it all. When he invokes God's confirmation of the peace in heaven, their response catches him completely by surprise.
"They say they have never heard such words," Enrique translates. "They take great pleasure in hearing them."
The eagerness in their faces... it stirs something in him. Not the usual satisfaction of seeing heathens properly cowed, but something different. Something that reminds him, suddenly and powerfully, of his namesake San Fernando.1
His next words come not from the carefully prepared script of conquest, but from somewhere deeper. He speaks of God—not as the mighty enforcer of Spanish authority, but as the creator of heaven and earth and sea. Of how He commands children to honor their parents. Of Adam and Eve, of the immortal soul.
The prince leans forward, drinking in every word. The others have forgotten their rigid postures, their formal distances. Even the Moor seems transfixed.
When Magellan asks who will succeed the raja, their answer reveals a world ordered so differently from God's natural law—daughters inheriting, children commanding aged parents. Yet instead of the usual contempt, he feels something new: an overwhelming urgency to bring these souls to Christ's truth and within the order of Christendom.
The words pour out of him now, no longer carefully measured. When the prince begs for teachers to remain, something catches in Magellan's throat. They want to learn more. They hunger for it.
"Tell them," he manages, his voice rougher than he intends, "that I cannot leave men now, but if they wish to become Christians..."
The prince's immediate eagerness to consult his king sparks something Magellan has not felt since... since when? Since kneeling before King Carlos with his dreams of finding the western route? No, something different. Something that makes his eyes burn with unexpected tears.
He finds himself embracing them—a breach of all protocol, all careful distance. His hands clasp theirs as he promises eternal peace between their peoples. The gesture would mortify him in any other circumstance, but in this moment it feels right. Holy, even.
Through his tears, he sees his life's path shifting. He came seeking spices, redemption from King Manuel's public scorn, wealth to restore his family's standing, glory to prove himself worthy of noble status. But God, it seems, had greater plans. The memory of San Fernando rises again—the warrior-king who brought whole kingdoms to Christ not merely through conquest but through true conversion.
When they depart, bearing his gifts of fine cloth and gilded glass, Magellan remains in his chair, no longer feeling its velvet warmth. His hand finds the cross at his throat instead of his sword hilt.
"Prepare my altar," he instructs the waiting servant. There will be much to pray about tonight. Much to document, much to plan. The captain's duties remain, but now they serve a greater purpose.
Lord God, he begins silently, you who brought us across the great ocean, through mutiny and starvation, to these distant shores...
The words falter. For the first time since leaving Spain, the familiar rhythms of command and conquest feel insufficient. Something new is taking shape—something that will demand all his courage, his mastery of wind and stars, his iron will to lead men through uncertainty, yet somehow transcend them all.
A ceremonial gong sounds across the water. Soon, perhaps, church bells will ring here instead. And he, Ferdinand Magellan, might be the instrument of that transformation.
***
Night has fallen over Sugbo. You recline in your lantay. The coconut oil lamps cast shifting shadows on the woven walls, their light competing with the silver glow of the crescent moon filtering through gaps in the roof. The flames dance in the evening breeze, carrying the mingled scents of the sea and your dinner – freshly boiled turtle eggs, their shells carefully cracked and arranged beside mounds of steaming rice.
You had dismissed your usual evening court, sending word through your paragahin that you would dine without ceremony tonight. The delegation's return from foreign ships requires careful ears and measured tongues.
Your cup bearer has just filled another cup of tubâ when you hear familiar footsteps. Tupas and the Bendahara emerge from the darkness, their shadows stretching long against the flickering lamplight. Something in their bearing makes you sit up straighter, more alert despite the pleasant haze of the afternoon's drinking.
You note their arrival without speaking, watching as they take their places on the woven mat. The absence of the others is conspicuous – no Kulambô with his usual laughter, no Ban-Sǒn with his careful observations, none of the eight datus who had accompanied them. The silence of their missing voices seems to fill the small space.
The cup bearer moves to serve them, but you notice how Tupas's hand trembles slightly as he accepts his cup. The Bendahara's face remains carefully neutral, but you've known your brother long enough to read the tension in his shoulders. The rich aroma of the turtle eggs fills the air between you, but neither man reaches for the food.
You let the silence stretch, watching them through the rising steam of your own cup of rice. There are stories here waiting to be told, but you know better than to rush their telling. Something significant happened aboard those black ships today – something that brought just these two to your evening meal, when you had expected the full delegation's report.
"Manoy," the Bendahara breaks the silence, his voice carefully measured. "The Kapitan spoke of his diwata."
You wait, letting your eyes rest on Tupas. Your nephew shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, his usual composure fractured.
"Their beliefs are like those who follow the Prophet," the Bendahara continues. "They seek to spread their faith to all the kingdoms they encounter." He pauses, and you can sense him choosing his next words with characteristic precision. "This could have been... useful to us."
"Could have been?" You keep your voice neutral, though the serpent inside you stirs at the implication of lost opportunity.
Tupas speaks then, his words tumbling out with uncharacteristic haste. "Uncle, their faith... it's different from anything I encountered in Johor. Their Kapitan spoke of a supreme diwata who chose to die like a slave, who commands his followers to love their enemies." His eyes shine with an emotion that makes you uneasy. "When he spoke of this deity, I felt..."
"You felt," you interrupt, letting the words hang in the air like a knife. The Bendahara closes his eyes briefly – confirmation of your growing suspicion.
"I asked to learn more of their faith," Tupas admits. "I told them we would welcome their teachings. The others joined in my enthusiasm." He looks down at his untouched cup. "The Kapitan wept with joy."
You take a slow sip of tubâ, savoring its bite as you see the game's new shape emerging. In the dance of power, faith is like any other weapon – its value lies not in its truth but in how it can be wielded. Your nephew, with his scholar's heart, has freely given what could have been traded for greater prizes.
"The Kapitan promised to bring more of their holy men on his next visit," Tupas adds, as if this somehow improves the situation. "He spoke of eternal peace between our peoples."
You notice how the Bendahara's hand tightens almost imperceptibly on his cup. Your brother, who watched Malacca fall to bearded men who also spoke of eternal peace and who also wept with joy at conversions.
"And what did they offer in return for this... enthusiasm?" you ask, though you already know the answer.
The silence that follows is answer enough.
A serpent knows when its prey is vulnerable. You see how Tupas's shoulders slump, how the weight of his perceived failure makes him soft, ready to yield whatever secrets you wish to extract. It would be so easy to strike now, to punish this display of weakness. But you find yourself curious instead. What diwata moves this strange nephew of yours, who speaks of trade and peace while the warriors of Sugbo speak of conquest?
You study the pair before you, weighing your options. The serpent within urges you to strike, to make an example of such weakness. But this moment offers a different opportunity. For years, the Bendahara has been carefully vague about Tupas's time in the Buddhist kingdoms beyond Malacca. Your nephew returned changed – quieter, more withdrawn, picking at his food during ritual feasts and averting his eyes during sacrifices. You've caught him sometimes at dawn, sitting cross-legged in meditation, but he would quickly rise and make excuses when discovered.
Now, with his guard down and shame making him vulnerable, you might finally understand what powers moved him in those distant courts. Knowledge that the Bendahara has thus far managed to keep from you.
"Tell me, dong," you say, letting your voice take on an almost fatherly tone, "what did you find in your travels beyond Malacca?"
The question seems to surprise him. The Bendahara shifts slightly – he knows your methods well enough to recognize when you're playing with your food. But Tupas straightens, some light returning to his eyes. He understands that he must pay for his mistake and accepts the price you present to him.
"I journeyed to the kingdom of Magadha,2 uncle," he says. "The court at Malacca had visitors from there – merchants and holy men. They spoke of a different way." His voice grows stronger as he continues, as if drawing comfort from the memory. "Their greatest teacher was a prince who left behind his palace, his wives, his wealth – everything – to seek understanding."
You notice how the Bendahara's expression softens almost imperceptibly at these words. There's a story here, one that father and son share.
"This prince," Tupas continues, "taught that all beings deserve compassion. Not just our kin or our allies, but even our enemies. Even the creatures we take from." He gestures at the untouched turtle eggs. "Even our slaves."
"How interesting," you say, letting irony color your words. "A faith that requires no sacrifice."
"That's just it, uncle." Tupas leans forward, his earlier shame forgotten in his eagerness. "These holy men taught that it's our actions that shape our fate – gabâ, we call it. They have a word too: karma. Every drop of blood we spill returns to us." He pauses, and you see him gathering courage. "When you sacrifice a slave for a dying datu, to pay his blood-debt to the yawâ that comes at death's door – what if there was another way? What if someone else's blood could pay for all?"
"The Kapitan spoke of the Almighty becoming man," Tupas says softly. "Of choosing to die like a slave, to pay the debt for all. When I heard this..." He trails off, unable to find words for what moved him.
You let the silence stretch again, watching the interplay of shadow and flame on the nipa walls. Your nephew's heart is like an open palm, showing all its lines to be read. He carries the weight of a crown he never wanted, torn between duty and desire. Like the prince in his story, he dreams of escape. Unlike the Buddha, his love for family and home holds him bound.
You study your nephew's conflicted face and feel a flash of something like pity – though the serpent quickly transforms it into contempt. His suffering comes from attachment, from being bound by love and duty.
So the boy encountered the Buddha's way in distant Magadha. You remember how Handuraw spoke of his teachings. The baylan had spent time with Buddhist holy men in her youth, learning their techniques for entering the mind's hidden chambers. But where they sought enlightenment through detachment, she taught you to use their methods for the game of power. You remember Handuraw speaking of how that great teacher showed his followers how to map the invisible world within themselves. She took these techniques and turned them toward different ends – not to escape the wheel of desire, but to master it, the way a skilled navigator uses the wind to drive his ship wherever he wishes, regardless of which way it blows.
Lesser players in this game of power clutch their plans like sacred treasures, becoming slaves to their own schemes. But you have learned to dance with whatever the moment brings, like a master of the balak.3 When two poets meet in contest, the novice comes with memorized verses, while the master can weave beauty from whatever words his opponent offers. Even now, your nephew's blunder opens new possibilities in your mind, fresh patterns in the dance of power.
You find yourself enjoying this game's unexpected turns. Then you notice how the Bendahara keeps glancing toward the door, and you realize there must be more.
"The Malaccan and the scribe are with Kulambô," your brother finally says. "We thought it best to speak with you first before bringing them to your presence."
You smile, thinking of the fresh batch of turtle eggs still warming in the kitchen. "By all means," you say, "let us welcome our guests properly."
You rise from the lantay, your mind already arranging the proper staging for receiving these foreign guests. With a simple nod to your paragahin, you murmur just a few words: "Prepare as befits visitors from distant shores."
Your paragahin bows and immediately springs into action, his years of anticipating your needs evident in every movement. He dispatches servants in all directions with precise instructions. Within moments, the platform is being arranged with the ceremonial mat from Johor, your cushions positioned at the perfect angle to assert dominance while appearing welcoming.
Your cup bearer, responding to your paragahin's silent gesture, selects four of the best palm wine jars with silver inlay, carefully covering them with sambong leaves and positioning the golden drinking reeds. Other servants bring out your entire collection of gold necklaces, along with the embroidered headscarf from Gujarat and your finest cotton sarong – all the symbols of power that will complement the tattoos marking your achievements.
Your paragahin's efficiency extends to the meal as well. Fresh turtle eggs appear in the blue and white porcelain Ming dishes, their arrangement suggesting both abundance and restraint.
As your people continue with the preparations, you turn to the Bendahara. "Gani, see that the appropriate datus are summoned. We shall show these foreigners how a rajah holds court."
The night has more surprises to offer, it seems. Good. You feel the familiar thrill of the hunt stirring within you – the same excitement you felt in your youth when your balanghay would spot unfamiliar sails on the horizon.
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Saint Ferdinand III of Castile (c. 1199–1252) was a medieval king of Castile and León who played a crucial role in the Christian Reconquista of Spain. He is known for his military conquests, particularly the capture of Seville in 1248, and for his devout faith and commitment to justice.
Magadha was an ancient kingdom in the Indian subcontinent, located in what is now Bihar, India. Known as a cradle of Indian civilization, it was the birthplace of major religious and philosophical movements—including Buddhism and Jainism—and served as the cultural origin of many Indianized influences that reached Southeast Asia through trade and migration.
Balak is a form of Cebuano poetry, traditionally oral but later written, that expresses emotions, narratives, or philosophical reflections through rhythmic and metaphorical language.