Chapter 9: The Bait | Rajah Versus Conquistador
April 10th – 12th, 1521
The game of visiting is as old as trade itself. When two datus meet for the first time, each tries to make the other come to him. The one who visits shows weakness – this is why tribute is called "visiting gold." This basic rule governs everything from marriage negotiations to peace treaties. Even the diwata understand this – it is humans who must visit their shrines, not the other way around.
In the days since their arrival, you've woven a web of intelligence from multiple sources – Enrike's drunken revelations, the scribe's actions, reports from your spies. From your lantay, you can see their black ships at anchor, the Kapitan's vessel floating furthest from shore like a wary predator. You've studied its movements through your port's rhythms – how it positions itself with the changing tides, how its crew maintains constant watch. Though you haven't yet seen the Kapitan up close, you've learned to read him through his ship's behavior, like tracking an unseen beast through its traces.
The Malaccan's tales of his master's virtue initially struck you as the typical exaggerations of a devoted servant. Yet the past days have painted a more complex picture. You sent your most alluring devadasi to the ships with offers of "entertainment" – they were politely but firmly turned away. Your merchants casually displayed gold in quantities that would tempt even the most disciplined trader – word returned that the Kapitan showed no interest beyond its value for fair trade. Even the wine that loosens every man's restraint seemed powerless against him. Your paragahin, who personally delivered the gifts of tubâ, watched with the keen eye of one trained to read foreign traders. He noted how their sailors' eyes lit up at the sight of the wine jars, their throats working in anticipation. But when the precious drink reached the Kapitan, he would take only the smallest sip, as if performing a ritual rather than seeking pleasure. The rest he distributed among his officers, watching with the detached interest of a datu observing his warriors' feast while remaining above such indulgence.
Most intriguing was how quickly he curtailed his crew's visits to shore once he noticed their growing indulgence in Sugbo's pleasures. Such control over warriors far from home speaks of either great fear or great respect. Your paragahin reports how his men snap to attention at the mere mention of approaching their leader's ship, how even the most drunken sailor straightens his spine when the Kapitan's name is spoken.
Through the sweet haze of tubâ, Enrike had spoken of a "code of chivalry" – a warrior's path that values honor above pleasure, duty above desire. You initially dismissed this as a slave's romantic notion of his master's virtues. But you've watched the Kapitan's actions carefully, measuring them against this standard. Like a master blade-smith testing the temper of steel, you've probed for flaws in this supposed virtue.
What you've found is more interesting than any common warrior driven by basic hungers. This is a man who has transformed conviction into power, who has bound his men to him not just through fear or greed, but through shared belief in something beyond themselves. Even Handuraw spoke of such men – how the most formidable opponents are those who have mastered their own desires. These men must be defeated not through their weaknesses but through their strengths.
You watch from your lantay as Tupas escorts the scribe through another tour of your port. The young man's little book is filled with drawings of your warriors' tattoos, descriptions of your feasts, careful notes about your customs. His latest obsession is with your warriors' palang – the golden pins that pierce their manhood, marked with delicate spurs like a fighting cock's. Through Enrike's drunken gossip, you learned how the scribe's detailed descriptions of these intimate customs have both fascinated and disturbed their crew. The thought amuses you – these pisot foreigners with their unmarked flesh understand nothing of how power flows through all things, even pleasure. Not only are they untattooed, making them unreadable to your people, but their manhood is as plain as children's – barely more than boys by your measure.
Yet there is something more significant revealed in their reactions to your customs. Enrike spoke of their diwata transforming sacrifice – taking the form of a slave to die for all mankind. At first you dismissed this as an ulipon's fantasy, the dreams of the powerless. But you've watched how this belief moves through their actions like an invisible current.
When your warriors launched a newly built balanghay, rolling its hull over the ulipon offering to ensure the vessel's fortune, the scribe recoiled not with the usual foreigner's discomfort, but with a specific kind of horror. Through Enrike's translations, you learned they see such sacred offerings as an offense against their diwata who forbids the spilling of slave blood, even for the purpose of ensuring favorable outcomes in war or trade. Where Muslim traders simply avoid such ceremonies and Hokkien merchants watch with diplomatic indifference, these visitors seem personally wounded by the sight of blood offerings.
Handuraw taught you to see the diwata not as spirits dwelling in trees and stones, but as forces moving through men's hearts. This diwata they call Hesukristo moves in patterns you've never encountered before. Like the Bakunawa, it hungers for blood – but it demands its followers shed their own rather than take it from others. Like Sapî, the diwata of trade that draws wealth across seas, it inspires men to cross vast oceans – but seeking souls rather than gold.
Most interestingly, this Kapitan seems to embody strange contradictions. Through several drinking sessions, Enrike revealed how their leader survived a mutiny in the southern seas, executing noble-born officers who defied him and even one of their male baylan – showing the ruthless strength you'd expect from a great warrior. Yet this same man, if the Malaccan slave is to be believed, tenderly cares for sick sailors and punishes any mistreatment of the weak, as if he were some kind of protector of slaves.
The Bendahara sits beside you in your payag, his voice pitched low though there's no one near enough to hear. "The scribe and the Malaccan have been asking when you will visit the ships to meet his master."
Of course they do. Just as their messengers keep suggesting how honored you would be to see their great vessels up close. They cloak it in courtesy, but the game remains the same – whoever makes the journey puts himself in the other's power.
"The Kapitan cannot simply seize you," the Bendahara continues his analysis. "Their pagtuo forbids treachery against potential converts. But if you were to go willingly onto his ship..."
You nod. Once aboard, it would be simple enough to hold you until you agreed to whatever terms they wished. You've used similar tactics yourself with visiting merchants who proved reluctant to pay proper tribute. They wouldn't even need to be obvious about it – a sudden "dangerous" wind that prevents return to shore, a series of ceremonies and feasts that keep stretching on, each delay reducing your power until you are effectively their hostage.
"And yet," you muse, "their diwata demands they convert us peacefully..."
A plan begins to form in your mind, delicate as a spider's web but potentially just as effective. You turn to the Bendahara. "How many slaves does Sugbo command? Not just here in the port, but in all our allied territories?"
"Hundreds," he answers cautiously, already sensing the direction of your thoughts. "But why-"
"And how many could we gather here within three days? To receive this bautismo their faith requires?"
The Bendahara's eyes widen slightly as understanding dawns. "Three to four hundred easily. More if we include the timawa. But, Manoy, wouldn’t they prefer to convert datus first to their pagtuo, just like the Muslim traders?"
You wave away his concern. "Their diwata delights in elevating the low. Did you not hear how Enrike spoke of all being equal in their pagtuo? Let us help them demonstrate this... universal brotherhood."
A slow smile spreads across your brother's face as he grasps the full implications. "A ceremony too large for their ships to hold. One that their own beliefs would prevent them from refusing..."
"And one that must be witnessed by their community," you add. "The Kapitan himself must come ashore to do the bautismo ritual for so many new... brothers in Hesukristo."
Through the windows of your payag, you can see their black ships rocking gently at anchor. Their very size that makes them formidable in battle becomes a weakness here. They cannot approach close enough to shore to threaten the port, not without risking their deep keels on the reefs. Like all great powers, they carry the seeds of their own defeat within their strengths.
"Send word to our allies," you command. "Tell them their rajah requires a great gathering of their people. Let it be known that something momentous approaches – a new power coming to Sugbo that will transform slave and free alike."
You turn back to the Bendahara. "Have Tupas bring the Malaccan to speak to the gathered slaves each day. Let Enrike preach to them of his diwata's love for the lowly. Your son's tongue will make the foreign message sound sweet to their ears." You pause, considering.
The Bendahara nods, but you catch the shadow of concern in his eyes. "And if this new power does indeed transform them? If their diwata's promise of equality..."
You laugh softly. "Brother, have you not seen how their own hierarchies persist despite their beliefs? Let them believe their ritual changes the order of things. We know that power flows from what men do, not what the diwata decree."
A familiar heat stirs within you as you watch concern flicker across your brother's face. You need his caution, his obsession with stability – every great port requires such careful administrators to maintain its daily rhythms. But you've learned from Handuraw that true power grows in the spaces between order and chaos. The serpent within you writhes in anticipation of how this foreign faith might crack open the rigid structures of your society. Like a lover's touch that begins gentle but promises exquisite passion, these small disruptions will spread through your domain, creating delicious new possibilities for those who know how to ride the storm. Just as Handuraw taught you to savor the moment when katsubong first enters the blood – that sweet instant between wholeness and corruption – you understand that true power flows from controlled transgression. Each small disorder you introduce only makes your eventual dominion stronger, more complete.
As the Bendahara departs to set things in motion, you find yourself admiring the elegance of it all. Their own virtues will compel them to accept your invitation. Their own beliefs will force them to come to you. And in seeking to raise up the lowest among your people, they will submit themselves to your power.
You recall how Enrike had described their rituals of rebirth – water that washes away the old self, marking the beginning of a new life in Hesukristo. A smile plays at your lips as you think of how your people use water differently. Your baylan know that water takes the shape of whatever vessel holds it. Like the tide itself, it can wear away the strongest stone through patient persistence.
You rise, moving to where you can better see the black ships through the sea haze. Their Kapitan serves a diwata who died like a slave to save mankind. You serve no diwata – you understand that they are forces to be mastered, not worshipped. Let him come ashore with his dreams of universal brotherhood. You will show him how Sugbo transforms submission into victory.
You think of what you've pieced together about the Kapitan from Enrike's wine-loosened revelations over multiple nights. A man who combines a laksamana’s skills in navigation and naval warfare with a baylan’s mysticism. Who enforces his faith's principles with steel when needed, yet shows mercy to defeated foes. Most interestingly, one who seems genuinely moved by his diwata's command to seek out new souls for conversion.
Such conviction makes him predictable. Like a master of the balak who knows his opponent's next verse before it's spoken, you can see the moves ahead. His own beliefs will make him accept your apparent submission. His own principles will prevent him from seeing the trap until it's too late.
***
The two days that followed proved even more fruitful than you anticipated. Both evenings, Enrike reports to you with barely contained joy how eagerly the people of Sugbo receive his message. You hide your amusement at his innocent enthusiasm – of course they listen attentively when their future ruler, Tupas, stands beside him, lending his authority to every foreign word. You've watched how your slaves study Enrike himself, a fellow ulipon who speaks like a scholar, treated with respect by datus. Such elevation must seem like its own miracle to them.
Your planted supporters perform their roles perfectly, crying out at the right moments, falling to their knees in apparent revelation. Yet something unexpected has begun to stir beneath the orchestrated display. You've noticed how some of the timawa linger after the sermons, asking questions that go beyond mere flattery. Even more surprising, certain datus have approached the Bendahara privately, speaking of strange dreams and visions that mirror the Malaccan's teachings.
This unplanned element pleases you deeply. Like a master poisoner who discovers his chosen herb has natural properties that enhance its intended effects, you recognize how genuine conviction can strengthen calculated deception. Let some find true faith – it only makes your gambit more convincing. After all, the most effective lies are those wrapped around a core of truth.
You pause, watching a flock of seabirds wheel between your port and their ships. Like all great powers, they believe their way is the only way. This is always the fatal weakness of those who serve absolute truths – they cannot imagine that others might be playing a different game entirely.
Through the gathering darkness, you see lamps being lit on the foreign ships. Their discipline is admirable – watches change precisely, signals are exchanged in careful patterns. You think of what Enrike revealed about their Kapitan's background: a man who lost favor with one king only to win the trust of another, who survived mutiny through sheer force of will. Such a man will understand the game of power being played, even as his faith compels him to play it.
You summon your paragahin. "Send word that Rajah Humabon wishes to embrace their faith, along with all his people. Tell them..." you pause, choosing your words carefully, "tell them Hesukristo has moved my heart through the examples of their virtue, and that I and five hundred of my people desire to receive bautismo from him."
***
Magellan sits in his cabin, the rosary beads still warm in his pocket from evening prayers, as he listens to Enrique's report. His voice trembles with barely contained joy as he describes the day's events—how hundreds gathered to hear the Good News, how they fell to their knees weeping at the story of Christ's sacrifice, how even their proud principalia approached with questions about this God and his Holy Church.
Through the stern windows, he can see the last light fading over Zubu. Lamps are being lit along the shore, their flames multiplying like stars falling to earth. So many souls waiting to be gathered into God's fold. His fingers feel the familiar wood grains of his rosary’s beads as he recalls the dreams that first drew him to sea—not just of spices and glory, but of extending the reaches of Christendom to these distant shores.
But the captain in him, the strategist forged in countless battles, cannot ignore the risks. His hand moves unconsciously to touch his bad leg, remembering old lessons written in blood and pain. Even with the ships' guns and his armored men, they would be hopelessly outnumbered if Humabon's apparent submission concealed a trap. One false move and the expedition would end here, the western path to the spice islands undiscovered, his vindication forever denied.
Yet was not the Reconquista itself built on such moments of faith? He thinks of San Fernando, who took Seville against impossible odds, trusting in God's providence. Of El Cid, who turned enemies into allies through the power of his conviction. Even the first Crusaders, marching toward Jerusalem with more faith than worldly prudence.
"The raja asks when you will come, my lord," Enrique ventures carefully. "They say the people yearn to see the one who brings them this new faith."
Magellan rises from his prayers, moving to study his charts though he has long since memorized every detail of these waters. The neat lines and careful measurements have always brought him comfort, a reminder that even the vast ocean can be mastered through measurement and knowledge. But some things cannot be calculated, cannot be contained within the strict bounds of nautical science.
He thinks of how Christ himself descended from heaven's safety to walk among mankind. How the apostles ventured forth with nothing but faith as armor. His fingers trace the coastline of Zubu, feeling the texture of the ink on paper. So many souls. How can he deny them because of base fears?
"Tell me again," he commands, though he has heard it several times already, "of the raja's words."
"He says our Lord Jesus Christ has moved his heart through our virtue, my captain. He wishes to embrace our faith, along with all his people." Enrique's voice carries both pride and wonder. "The way they speak of you, my lord... it is as if they seek not just a teacher, but a father to his children."
As a father to his children. The words echo in Magellan's mind. He thinks of his own son in Seville, of Enrique whom he has raised from childhood, of his crew who look to him for guidance. Is this not a greater fatherhood that God now offers?
The bells sound for the evening watch change. Such precise discipline has kept them alive across the vast ocean. But there are times when a captain must risk everything on a single throw of the dice, must trust in something beyond mere calculation.
He straightens, feeling the weight of the moment. "Tomorrow," he declares, "you will tell the raja that his request is granted. On Sunday, we shall come ashore with Father Valderrama to baptize them." His voice takes on the formal tone he uses for official pronouncements. "Let it be recorded that on this Friday evening, the 12th of April, in the year of Our Lord 1521, we have determined to bring these people into God's fold."
Enrique bows, trying to hide his smile. "Yes, my lord. Shall I have the clerk prepare the formal documents?"
"As always." Magellan pauses, his hand absently touching the hilt of his sword. "And Enrique—remind the raja not to be alarmed by the cannon salute we shall give before coming ashore. It is our custom to announce great occasions with artillery, just as we did upon first entering his port." His voice carries the precise tone of a man who knows his words will be weighed carefully. "Tell him it is a sign of respect... and a reminder of God's power to transform all things."
The implied threat hangs in the air between them. Even Enrique's smile falters slightly as he catches the steel beneath his master's pious words.
Magellan turns back to the stern windows, where the shore lights now outnumber the stars. "A father must go to his children," he says softly, more to himself than to his servant. "God Himself showed us the way."
Later, after Enrique has gone, Magellan kneels again before his small altar. The practiced words of formal prayer fall away, replaced by something more urgent, more personal.
"Lord God," he whispers, "you who guided us across the great ocean, who preserved us through storm and mutiny, who brought us at last to these shores... Grant me the wisdom of San Fernando, the courage of El Cid, the faith of those first warriors who carried your cross into unknown lands. Let me be an instrument of your will, whether for victory… or martyrdom."
His hand finds the cross at his throat—not the formal captain's regalia, but the simple one his mother gave him, worn smooth by years of anxious touches. "Into your hands, Lord. For your greater glory."
The night deepens around the Trinidad, and one by one the lamps along the shore go dark. But in his mind's eye, Magellan already sees the Sunday to come—the procession to shore, the raising of the cross, the washing away of old sins in blessed water. God's kingdom advancing one soul at a time, here at the far edges of the known world.
Whatever traps or triumphs await, the die is cast. The father will go to his adoptive children. The shepherd will tend to his flock.
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