Chapter 8: Enrike | Rajah Versus Conquistador
Evening of April 9th, 1521
The young scribe reminds you of Kulambô in his youth. They are the same type of man – they both embrace life with the carefree grace of someone who grew up in wealth and power but without the burning and unquenchable desire for more. They don't have your gift.
You watch him through half-lidded eyes as he studies your surroundings, his quick fingers moving across the pages of his little book. You've seen his kind before in your port – the sons of powerful men who join trading expeditions not for profit or power, but for stories to bring home. They are useful in their way, these collectors of tales. Their writings spread the fame of your port across distant seas.
You put on the face you reserve for visiting datus – open, generous, suggesting the possibility of deep friendship while revealing nothing. The same face that has served you well with Hokkien merchants and Muslim traders. You invite them to share food and drink, gesturing to the spread your paragahin has prepared – tortoise eggs, fresh fish, roasted pig, mountains of rice steaming on porcelain plates. Your gold ornaments catch the lamplight as you move, a calculated display of wealth.
The scribe declines through Enrike, though you note how his eyes linger on the feast. The Kapitan's orders, perhaps. No matter. You've played this game enough times to know that when food and gold fail to loosen tongues, there are other ways.
You signal for the devadasi to enter. This is your nephew's little project – taking common slave-whores and teaching them the refined dances he learned in his travels. The courtesans enter with practiced grace, their movements carrying hints of distant lands – poses from the courts of Johor, gestures from the temples of Java, all woven together into something uniquely of Sugbo. Their skin is ghost-pale from being kept from the sun, their faces painted in the style Tupas learned during his time in Buddhist kingdoms.
You watch the silent war play across the young scribe's features – duty wrestling with desire, piety with temptation. His hand touches the little book in his sleeve, then drops away. He speaks rapidly to Enrike, his voice carrying that particular pitch of a man trying to convince himself as much as others.
"He says we must inform the Kapitan that they will be delayed," Enrike translates, a hint of amusement in his voice. "He wishes to... document important customs of our new allies."
You hide your satisfaction. You've seen this dance countless times – the elaborate justifications men create to do what they wanted all along. The scribe is still young, unused to masking his desires. His eyes keep darting to where the most beautiful of the dancers moves like silk in the wind.
Tupas, ever the gracious host, speaks in the trading tongue: "In Sugbo, we believe true friendship can only be forged when men set aside their armor. When they see each other as they truly are."
You don't need Enrike's translation of the scribe's eager response. You watch them leave – your nephew leading the way to where the dancers will entertain them, the scribe's steps already quickening, his little book forgotten against his hip. You turn your attention to Enrike. The real work of the evening can begin.
***
The tubâ has done its work. Enrike's formal posture has softened, his careful translations giving way to longer, more passionate discourse. You watch with a mix of disgust and fascination as this slave speaks of things that should be beyond his station.
"You see, my lord," Enrike's voice carries the particular intensity of drunk scholars, "when Sanpablo wrote 'there is neither slave nor free,' he wasn't just speaking pretty words. He was declaring war on the very foundations of Romano society!" He takes another deep drink. "Just as your datus measure their power in tattoos and gold, Roma measured theirs in how many souls they owned. But then..." he pauses for effect, swaying slightly, "then comes this carpenter's son, born in a stable, who dies the death of a slave, and everything – everything – changes."
The Bendahara leans forward, genuinely interested. "How so?"
"Consider this, my friends." Enrike's gestures have become broader, more theatrical. "'The last shall be first, and the first shall be last.' What could be more threatening to those who build their power on the backs of others? In Roma, they threw Kristianos to the lions. But the more they killed us, the stronger we became. Because you cannot kill an idea whose time has come!"
You exchange a glance with the Bendahara. Even drunk, Enrike maintains the formal Melayu of the trading ports, but there's a rhythm to his speech now that reminds you of the baylan in their trances.
"Your society," he continues, jabbing a finger at you with the startling directness of the intoxicated, "and ours – they're not so different, you know. Roma had its senators, you have your datus. They had their slaves, you have your ulipon. They had their own diwata demanding blood sacrifice..." He trails off, taking another drink. "But our Diyos? Our Diyos turns it all upside down. He becomes the sacrifice. The King of Kings takes the form of a slave!"
Your face betrays nothing, but inwardly you note how this slave has forgotten himself, presuming to lecture you on power.
"The Kastila hidalgos," Enrike's voice drops conspiratorially, "they say they follow Hesukristo, but they still think like Romanos. They want to build an empire like Roma. But they can't escape what the cross means." He straightens suddenly, and his voice takes on a ringing quality as though reciting: "'Our Diyos chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong, the lowly things of this world and the despised things – and the things that are not – to nullify the things that are.'"
You study the slave with the same cold interest you might give to learning the habits of prey. His drunken passion has revealed something valuable – a fundamental tension in how these visitors view power. They seek to conquer like this ancient kingdom they call Roma, yet worship a diwata who died like a slave. Here is something that can be turned to your advantage.
"Tell me more about how your people view sacrifice," you ask – you are a baylan, after all. You keep your voice gentle, encouraging. The same tone you use when leading an opponent into a trap during knife practice. "In Sugbo, we offer blood to feed the diwata. But you say your diwata became the sacrifice himself?"
"Ahhhh, sacrifice!" Enrike's eyes light up at your question. "That is the heart of it, my lord! The Romanos, they understood sacrifice like you do – blood to appease the diwata, to show power." He leans forward unsteadily. "They killed thousands. Slaves, rebels, anyone who challenged their authority. But then – and this is the beautiful mystery..."
He pauses to drink deeply, then continues with the fervor of a baylan in trance. "Diyos himself takes the form of a slave, allows himself to be hung on the krus, and transforms everything! No more blood offerings needed. One perfect sacrifice, once and for all!"
"And how many follow this diwata now?" you ask casually, noting how the Bendahara watches Enrike with particular intensity.
"Kingdoms upon kingdoms!" Enrike sweeps his arm in a grand gesture, nearly knocking over his cup. "From Roma to the forests of Alemanya, from the desert kingdoms to the northern ice. All united under the Santopapa, Hesukristo's representative on earth, who gave our King Karlos authority over all new lands and peoples we discover." His voice takes on a rhythmic quality: "'Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Espiritusanto.'"
"Tell me of these armies that serve your king," you prompt, refilling his cup. Like a fisherman feeling the first tremor in his line, you sense approaching revelation.
"Ha! Numbers mean nothing before Diyos! But..." he squints in concentration, "The King commands perhaps forty thousand warriors in heavy armor, with terrible weapons that can shatter castle walls. Yet any man who accepts our bautismo becomes something greater than a warrior – he becomes a child of Diyos, equal to kings in His eyes!"
You exchange a look with the Bendahara. Forty thousand warriors in armor – an impressive force, but far away. More interesting is this “bautismo” that allegedly erases rank. "And this bautismo ritual – how is it performed?"
"Simple water, my lord! Poured over the head while sacred words are spoken. But through it..." Enrike's voice rises with evangelical enthusiasm, "through it you are reborn! Old distinctions fall away – slave and free, noble and common, all become one in Hesukristo!"
"Like the blood compact?" you ask, thinking of how that ancient ritual binds warriors together.
"Yes! No! Much more!" Enrike struggles to focus his thoughts. "The blood compact binds two men as brothers. But bautismo..." he searches for words, "bautismo makes you part of a universal brotherhood. Once you have undergone bautismo, you have rights and protections under our laws. No Kristiano can enslave another Kristiano."
You absorb this, your mind already calculating possibilities. A ritual that grants protection under their laws while requiring only water and words – no blood sacrifice, no complex ceremonies. And their leader is compelled by his beliefs to perform it himself...
"More tubâ?" you offer, noting how Enrike's eyelids have grown heavy. There is still much to learn about these strange people who combine the warrior’s might with a slave's diwata.
"But how," you ask, watching Enrike sway slightly, "does a diwata who died like a slave inspire warriors?"
The question ignites fresh passion in the Malaccan's glazed eyes. "Ahhh! This is what makes the Kastila knight different from the Romano soldier!" He straightens, trying to affect dignity despite his drunkenness. "The Romano fought for glory, for plunder. The knight fights for..." he pauses, collecting his scattered thoughts, "for justice!"
"He must possess the four great virtues," Enrike holds up fingers, counting unsteadily. "Prudensya – wisdom to know the right path. Hustisya – justice to walk it truly. Fortitudo – courage to face any foe. Temperansya – control over base desires." He drops his hand, nearly tipping over. "These make the perfect knight, servant of both krus and crown."
The Bendahara leans forward. "And your Kapitan – he embodies these virtues?"
Enrike's face lights up. "The Kapitan! He is..." the slave catches himself, perhaps remembering his station, but the tubâ urges him on. "He was great in King Manwel's service. But they rejected him! Called him..." he searches for the word, "difficult. Proud. Too certain of his own genius."
A familiar pattern – the scorned warrior seeking new masters. You've seen it before in your port. "And now he serves a greater king?"
"The greatest!" Enrike's voice rises in volume. "Karlos rules an empire like Roma reborn! But Christian Roma, you understand? When we conquer, it is to save souls. When we fight, it is..." his speech becomes more slurred, "is holy war. Not for gold but for Diyos..."
"And yet," you observe mildly, "your ships carry much trade goods."
Enrike waves his hand dismissively, nearly falling over. "Commerce serves conversion! As Sanagustin taught..." he squints, trying to remember, "'What are kingdoms without justice but great bands of robbers?'" He takes another deep drink. "We must show... show that Hesukristo brings prosperity. That serving Him brings peace and..." his head starts to droop, "...and wealth..."
"Tell us more about your Kapitan's plans," you encourage softly, but Enrike's eyes have closed. His breathing deepens into the rhythm of the deeply drunk.
You sit back, exchanging looks with the Bendahara. These visitors are bound by codes and virtues that can be turned against them. Their own beliefs will force them to come to you, to seek your conversion through peace before violence.
"A warrior bound by virtue," you muse aloud, "is a warrior whose moves can be predicted."
The Bendahara nods slowly. "And a faith that promises universal brotherhood..."
"...creates obligations we can exploit," you finish. Already your mind is weaving these threads into a strategy. You rise, signaling servants to carry the unconscious Enrike to a sleeping mat. "Have Tupas bring the scribe to the morning meal."
From your position under the open-air gallery, you can see the first hint of dawn touching the eastern sky. The same direction, Enrike had mentioned in his drunken ramblings, from which their diwata's light first spread across the world. The sea breeze carries mixing scents – incense from the midnight rituals of Muslim traders, smoke from cooking fires being rekindled, and beneath it all, the eternal salt-tang that has drawn generations of foreign ships to your port.
The Bendahara breaks the silence. "Their faith is their weakness. Every virtue they claim binds them like a rope."
You study your brother's face in the fading lamplight. Even now, you can see him cataloging and analyzing all that Enrike revealed, fitting each piece into the complex machinery of statecraft. The boy you once knew, who dreamed of bringing Malacca's sophisticated order to Sugbo's rough shores, has grown into a master of systems and laws.
"Four virtues," you muse, "and not one for cunning." A gift, really, when your enemies tell you exactly how they think they should behave. Like a knife fighter who announces his moves before making them.
You then hear the sound of late-night revelers – Tupas's voice raised in song, mixing Johorese court music with local melodies. The scribe's higher tones join in, mangling the words but enthusiastic. You imagine his little book forgotten somewhere, its pages perhaps stained with spilled tubâ.
"Have the devadasi keep them occupied until morning," you instruct a waiting servant. "Then bring them here for the morning meal. The scribe will be eager to record more of our... hospitality."
The Bendahara rises, his movements precise even after hours of drinking. "And the Kapitan?"
You smile, feeling the serpent's pleasure at a game taking shape. "He serves a diwata who died like a slave but promises to make all men kings. Let's help him keep his faith."
***
The night breeze carries the mingled scents of sea and distant shore as Magellan and Father Pedro Valderrama stand at the ship's rail. They have formed this habit during the endless nights crossing the great ocean—the priest's gentle presence helping to ease the weight of command when sleep proves elusive. Now, beneath strange stars so different from those that had guided them at home, these sessions have become their routine. Even here, in spiritual direction, Magellan maintains proper form, the red cross of Santiago on his captain's attire catching the silver moonlight as they both lean on the rail. These sessions have become their nightly ritual since those desperate days in the endless ocean, when starvation and scurvy stripped away all pretense, leaving only faith and doubt locked in combat.
"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," Magellan begins, the familiar Latin steadying him. The priest's gentle presence has become a lifeline since those dark days when the great ocean seemed endless and God's purpose obscure.
"I have seen my own spiritual poverty these past days, Father, reflected in Enrique's eyes." Magellan's voice catches slightly. "Each time he speaks to the heathens of our Lord, there is such... purity of heart. No thought of advantage or position. While I..." He trails off.
The priest waits, letting silence do its work. They both know the weight of memory—the quartered body of Quesada displayed as warning, the marooned priest abandoned on that desolate shore. Justify it as he might by naval law and a captain's duty, these ghosts cannot be banished by procedure alone.
"I purchased him in Malacca, you know. Ten years past, when the city fell." Magellan's formal posture softens slightly as memory takes him. "A boy of sixteen, but already master of five tongues. I saw in him what Portugal had seen in me—someone who could be useful. I had him baptized, taught him our ways..." A bitter smile touches his lips. "I thought I was being charitable."
"And now?" Father Pedro's voice is gentle.
"Now he teaches me what true faith means. The zeal that burns in him... it's like watching the early Church reborn." Magellan touches the cross at his throat. "While I still think like a captain, counting allies and advantages, he simply... loves. Loves Christ, loves these heathens who might become his brothers."
The priest nods. "God often works through such reversals. The master learns from the servant."
"Even young Pigafetta..." Magellan shifts uncomfortably. "That noble from Vicenza sees me as some paragon of virtue. If he knew the full measure of my sins..."
"Perhaps God gives us such mirrors to see ourselves more clearly," Father Pedro suggests. "Both what we are and what we might become."
Magellan straightens from the rail and paces the quarterdeck, his bad leg dragging slightly. "I had thought to win glory enough to return to Portugal in triumph. To make King Manuel regret his scorn." He gives a sharp laugh. "Or failing that, to prove my worth to King Carlos. But God seems to have other plans."
"What plans do you discern?"
Magellan grips the ship's rail, gazing out at the dark water where distant fires flicker along the shore. "These people need fathers, not conquerors. Teachers, not masters." He touches the cross at his throat, his voice softening. "We speak of our Holy Mother Church, but perhaps what's needed here is... spiritual fatherhood."
His thoughts turn to Cristóvão—the son born of his wilder days, before he learned the discipline that now defines him. The boy serves now among his crew, a living reminder of the man he once was. "God has taught me fatherhood in strange ways, Father. Through a son born in sin, through a slave who became like a son..."
He straightens, his tactical mind already mapping possibilities. "If we establish a strong Christian kingdom here, perhaps King Carlos would allow Beatriz and little Rodrigo to join us. A proper viceroy needs his family, after all. To show these people what a Christian household should be."
"And you feel called to this?"
"Called? Commanded, more like." Magellan's voice takes on a familiar intensity. "Look at the signs, Father. My path back to Portugal is forever closed—Manuel would never forgive my betrayal. And Castile..." He gives a sharp, bitter laugh. "I know how Castilian noblemen think, how they whisper in royal ears. They already resent a Portuguese hidalgo commanding their ships. Now that I've marooned one of their own... And a priest..." He crosses himself. "Even if we find the strait and win the spices, there will be powerful men in Valladolid who won't rest until they see me hang."
The priest studies him thoughtfully. "You speak of fatherhood, yet you still think like a captain-general—mapping routes, calculating positions."
"Old habits," Magellan admits. "But perhaps God can use even that. These people need order as well as love. Structure to shape their new faith, strong hands to guide..." He catches himself and smiles ruefully. "And there I go again, planning conquests."
"The Church has always needed both Martha and Mary," Father Pedro says. "The practical and the contemplative. Perhaps your gift is to bridge them."
Magellan turns back to the rail. "Pray with me, Father. That I might have wisdom to know the difference between godly order and mere control. Between fatherly guidance and tyranny." His voice drops low, nearly lost in the lap of waves against the hull. "That I might learn true fatherhood from the only perfect Father."
As they pray together on the deck, the lap of waves against the hull provides a gentle counterpoint to their Latin whispers. In his mind's eye he can see them now—Enrique on the shore, an indio teaching his fellow indios their first prayers in their own tongue, while the devoted Pigafetta records every spiritual triumph in his journal. Father and sons, each in their way. God's plans are greater than any mortal's ambition after all.
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