Retelling Magellan: Whispered Treachery
May 1st, 500 years ago in 1521: Magellan’s successor has been chosen to find Southeast Asia’s Spice Islands and Magellan’s slave has wounds to heal. Here’s a fictionalized retelling of that day in Cebu City based on European firsthand accounts and other historical data.
++The Knight of Rhodes, Antonio Pigafetta++
Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae,
Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle…
The faithful knight prayed as his fingers cradled the last rosary bead. Somewhere beyond his cabin walls he heard boots across the deck. His thoughts returned to the Captain-General; three days had passed since his violent death. He pictured the man walking across sand. The sand of… of so many beaches. He’d walked with a limp… since his time in Morocco, Antonio had heard. Yet he always walked with a dignity that commanded respect.
A fist pounded on a distant door. Antonio muttered his Latin words fervently. He remembered the tremor of the cannons on the day the Armada had sailed into Cebu’s port. And again on the day that Don Carlos was baptized with hundreds of islanders. He lamented the loss of such an accomplished and faithful leader. Here in his Archipelago of Saint Lazarus; where they had celebrated the Resurrection of the Savior alongside pagans. Three days had passed. And Fernão Magalhães body would not be waking again… wherever it was…
Two voices from the same direction as the pounding on the door came to Antonio’s ears. One stern, the other angry. The knight tightened his closed eyes further and continued his soft litany:
“…Mirror of justice, pray for us. Seat of wisdom, pray for us. Cause of our joy, pray for us…”
He saw in his mind Magalhães falling into the water.
He heard in the other room the voice of Duarte Barbosa, “…no better than a dog!”
“…Refuge of sinners, pray for us. Solace of migrants, pray for us…”
Pigafetta imagined the navigational charts the Captain-General had shown him. Had taught him how to read.
The softer, stern voice said something about, “he is not free on account of losing his master; he is not excused on account of his wounds.” He could recognize it as Juan Serrano’s voice now.
“…Queen of the most holy Rosary, pray for us. Queen of families, pray for us. Queen of Peace, pray for us.”
Fumbling the sign of the cross, Antonio concluded his meditation and stood up slowly. As he opened his eyes and straightened his knees, he felt the swelling in his head again. The heathens’ arrows must have been poisoned, he was sure. Focusing his eyes on the floor ahead of him, he found his balance and pushed towards the two captains.
Through the doorway of his cabin, Pigafetta saw the profile of Juan Serrano, the citizen of Sevilla, and one of the Armada’s newly elected joint commanders. Halfway in the door of another compartment, he saw the back of Duarte Barbosa’s imposing shoulders; he was the loud voice, shouting into the room where Henrique of Molucca had been convalescing since Mactan, just like the knight himself had been doing. Barbosa was the other joint commander. And Magellan’s brother-in-law.
“When we reach Spain, you will STILL be the slave of Doña Beatriz, and I will deliver you personally to the Magalhães household!”
Dona Beatriz Barbosa Magalhães, Pigafetta remembered.
“Until then, you WILL follow orders and do your duty for the Armada!”
The knight saw Serrano say something softly to the other Captain. The latter had to step back out of the doorway and lean closer to hear it. Pigafetta heard a rustling coming from the room. And a few moments later, Henrique walked out. With his head upright, he stared past his new masters almost as if they weren’t even there. And then he turned passed them and walked out to the deck. Juan and Duarte shared a look and a shake of their heads before they followed him out. The knight thumbed his rosary beads and crept back into his cabin.
~The joint Captain-General, Juan Serrano~
The smell of savory sauces and priceless spices floated through the afternoon air. Juan Serrano strained his eyes at the islanders sitting across from him, as if by looking more closely he could decipher their words and hand-waving more intelligently. He swallowed more coconut wine from a porcelain vessel and then stared down at the piece of china, wondering how something of such rare quality could be in a place of such simplicity.
A hand came to Juan’s shoulder. He looked to see João Carvalho kneeling next to him. Among the noise of a couple dozen crewmen feasting with over a hundred natives, he greeted the man in Portuguese, “Tudo bem, Carvalho.”
“Tudo bem, senhor — meu Capitão!” Carvalho gave a trusting and confident smile as he called his friend Captain.
Serrano gratefully returned the smile and repeated, “is everything good?”
“Sim,” Carvalho confirmed. “I’m just going to look for Father Valderrama. He stepped out and hasn’t been back in a bit.”
Serrano nodded, “take someone with you.”
Carvalho returned the nod and patted the Captain’s shoulder as he stood and left. Looking around at the other officers and the local princes seated with him on the plaza’s bamboo platform, Serrano noticed another seat over to his left, the face of his fellow Captain-General, Duarte Barbosa. He was looking serious, which was his usual look, but also he was intently focused on something.
He followed Duarte’s gaze further left to Don Carlos sitting awkwardly in the red velvet chair Magallanes had given him. One of the king’s men — the harbormaster — was speaking into the king’s ear while he looked down on the guests. Then the king pointed somewhere in the crowd very briefly and his harbormaster marched across the floor.
The two Captain-Generals watched the stout islander walk off the platform past the clusters of cross-legged guests to where the servants were sitting, nearly on the far end of the crowd. When he was walking back, Magellan’s slave from Malacca was following behind. Captain Barbosa’s gaze was simmering now.
The Moluccan, Henrique, knelt on the left side of Don Carlos’ chair, directly opposite Duarte Barbosa. Serrano took another bite of the pork and broth in front of him, feeling relieved that the slave was finally honoring his duty as interpreter again. He washed the meat down with some more coconut wine, but his vessel had gone dry. Juan looked around for a servant, but then he couldn’t help but notice that Barbosa hadn’t taken his hard stare off the slave and the king.
Never good luck to stare at a king, Captain Serrano thought. Maybe Duarte has drunk all his wine too.
Now Duarte was getting up to one knee. “Henrique!” the brute yelled. It was loud enough that all conversations nearby quieted for just a moment.
The slave turned his head, and not in a hurry. Barbosa pointed back to the other end of the crowd and ordered, “Henrique of Molucca, you are not needed for any business right now. Sit with the other servants until you are commanded otherwise…”
The king looked at the Captain without concern, then spoke again to the slave beside him. Henrique met the Captain’s eyes insolently and lingered for a moment, then turned back to the king speaking softly in his own tongue.
Duarte stood up abruptly and Henrique looked back again just as suddenly. Between Barbosa and Serrano, the Moorish merchant Cristóbal got up to one knee and called after Barbosa in bad Portuguese, “Kapitaw! Purr pabor…”
Not acknowledging Cristóbal at all, the Captain kept on at Henrique, “were you listening to me back on the ship? Or did fleas bite your ears shut, you dog?”
Henrique was meeting the Captain’s gaze stoically. All eyes were on either of the two men and all conversation across the feast had stopped dead.
Duarte stomped across the mats of food placed directly before the king, kicking porcelain platters of spices, sauces, and fruits along the floor. The king’s attention seemed more focused on the mess than on the angry Christian who made it.
The Captain was then standing over Henrique, staring down with his chest heaving. He flicked his saber loose in its scabbard with his left thumb. Staring back up, the slave stood slowly, then calmly reached his right hand towards his left hip and pulled his falchion from its leather sheath. His arms hung loose on either side of him. The Captain-General took two and a half steps back, brandished his saber, and inhaled deeply.
This is part 11 of Retelling Magellan’s Philippines
Next chapter: “The Pity of Juan Serrano”
Previous chapter: “The Battle of Mactan”
