“But if we don’t sail out of sight of shore, how can we do well?”
“This isn’t a good time to expect sailors to be rational,” said the captain. “And one thing’s sure—you can’t lead sailors where they don’t want to go.”
“They wouldn’t mutiny.”
“If they thought I was leading them to drown, they’d put this ship to shore and leave the cargo for the pirates. Better than drowning, or being sold into slavery.”
Cristoforo had not realized this. It hadn’t come up on any of his voyages before, and the sailors didn’t speak of this when they were ashore in Genova. No, then they were all courage, full of fight. And the idea that the captain couldn’t lead whenever he might wish to command . . . Cristoforo brooded about that idea for days, as the corsairs paced them, squeezing them ever closer to the shore.
“French,” said the navigator.
As soon as he said the word, a sailor near him said, “Coullon.”
Cristoforo started at the name. In Genova he had heard enough French, despite the hostility of the Genovese for a nation that had more than once raided their docks and tried to burn the city, to know that coullon was the French version of his own family’s name: Colombo, or, in Latin, Columbus.
But the sailor who said it was not French, and seemed to have no idea that the name would mean anything to Cristoforo.
“Might be Coullon,” said the navigator. “Bold as he is, it’s more likely to be the devil—but then they say that Coullon is the devil.”
“And everyone knows the devil is French!” said a sailor.
They laughed, all who could hear, but there was little real mirth in it. And the captain made a point of showing Cristoforo where the firepots were, once the ship’s boy had filled them. “Make sure you keep fire in your hands,” he said to Cristoforo. “That is your blade, Signor Colombo, and they will respect you.”
Was the pirate Coullon toying with them? Was that why he let them stay just out of reach until Cape St. Vincent was tantalizingly in view? Certainly Coullon had no trouble then, closing the gap, cutting them off before they could break to the north, around the cape, into the open Atlantic.
There was no hope of coordinating the defense of the fleet now. Each captain had to find his own way to victory. The captain of Cristoforo’s ship realized at once that if he kept his current course he’d be run aground or boarded almost at once. “Come around!” he cried. “Get the wind behind us!”
It was a bold strategy, but the sailors understood it, and the other ships, seeing what Cristoforo’s old whaler was doing, followed suit. They’d have to pass among the corsairs, but if they did it right, they’d end up with the open sea ahead of them, the corsairs behind them, and the wind with them. But Coullon was no fool, and brought his corsairs around in time to throw grappling hooks at the passing Genovese merchantmen.
As the pirates pulled the ropes hand over hand, forcing the boats together, Cristoforo could see that the captain had been right: Their own crew would have little hope in a fight. Oh, they’d give such a battle as they could, knowing that it was their lives at stake. But there was despair in all their eyes, and they visibly shrank from the bloodshed that was coming. He heard one burly sailor saying to the ship’s boy, “Pray that you’ll die.” It wasn’t encouraging; nor was the obvious eagerness on the part of the pirates.
Cristoforo reached down, took the match from the cinder-pot, touched it to two of the firepots, and then, holding them tight though they singed his doublet, he stepped atop the forecastle, where he could get a clear throw at the nearest corsair. “Captain!” he cried. “Now?”
The captain didn’t hear him—there was too much shouting at the helm. Never mind. Cristoforo could see that things were desperate, and the closer the corsairs got, the likelier the chance of the flames taking both ships. He threw the pot.
His arm was strong, his aim true, or true enough. The pot shattered on the corsair’s deck, splashing flames like a spill of bright orange dye across the wood. In moments it was dancing up the sheets to the sails. For the first time, the pirates weren’t grinning and hooting. Now they pulled all the more grimly on the grappling lines, and Cristoforo realized that of course their only hope, with their own ship afire, was to take the merchant vessel.
Turning, he could see that another corsair, also grappling with a Genovese ship, was close enough that he could visit a bit of fire on it, too. His aim was not as good—the pot splashed harmlessly into the sea. But now the ship’s boy was lighting the pots and handing them up to him, and Cristoforo managed to put two onto the deck of the farther corsair, and another pair onto the deck of the pirate ship that was preparing to board his own. “Signor Spinola,” he said, “forgive me for losing your cargo.”
But Signor Spinola would not hear his prayers, he knew. And it wasn’t a matter of his career as a trader now. It was a matter of saving his life. Dear God, he said silently, am I to be your servant or not? I give my life to you, if you spare it now. I will free Constantinople. “The Hagia Sophia will once again hear the music of the holy mass,” he murmured. “Only save me alive, dear God.”
“This is his moment of decision?” asked Kemal.
“No, of course not,” said Diko. “I just wanted you to see what I was doing. This scene has been shown a thousand times, of course. Columbus against Columbus, they called it, since he and the pirate had the same name. But all the recordings were from the days of the Tempoview, right? So we saw his lips move, but in the chaos of battle there was no hope of hearing what he said. He was speaking too softly, his lips moved too slightly. And this bothered no one, because after all, what does it matter how a man prays in the midst of battle?”
“But this does matter, I think,” said Hassan. “The Hagia Sophia?”
“The holiest shrine in Constantinople. Perhaps the most beautiful Christian place in all the world, in these days before the Sistine Chapel. And when Columbus is praying for God to spare his life, what does he vow? An eastern crusade. I found this several days ago, and it kept me awake night after night. Everyone had always looked for the origin of his westward voyage back father, on Chios, perhaps, or in Genova. But he has already left Genova now for the last time. He’ll never turn back. And he’s only a week away from the beginning of his time in Lisbon, when it’s clear that he has already turned his eyes irrevocably, resolutely to the west. And yet here, at this moment, he vows to liberate Constantinople.”
“Unbelievable,” said Kemal.
“So you see,” said Diko, “I knew that whatever it was that turned him to his obsession with the western voyage, with the Indies, it must have happened between this moment on board this ship whose sails are already burning, and his arrival in Lisbon a week later.”
“Excellent,” said Hassan. “Fine work, Diko. This narrows it down considerably.”
“Father,” said Diko. “I discovered this days ago. I told you that I found the moment of decision, not that I had found the week.”
“Then show us,” said Tagiri.
“I’m afraid to,” said Diko.
“And why is that?”
“Because it’s impossible. Because . . . because as far as I can tell, God speaks to him.”
“Show us,” said Kemal. “I’ve always wanted to hear the voice of God.”
Everyone laughed.
Except Diko. She didn’t laugh. “You’re about to,” she said.
They stopped laughing.
The pirates were aboard, and along with them came the fire, leaping from sail to sail. It was obvious to all that even if they somehow repulsed the pirates, both ships were doomed. Those sailors who weren’t already engaged in bloody-handed combat began throwing kegs and hatch covers into the water, and several managed to get the ship’s boat into the water on the side opposite the pirates’ ship. Cristoforo saw how the captain disdained to abandon his ship—he was fighting bravely, his sword dancing. And then the sword wasn’t there, and through the smoke swirling across the deck Cristoforo co
uld no longer see him.
Sailors were leaping into the sea, striking out for bits of floating debris. Cristoforo caught a glimpse of one sailor pushing another from a hatch-cover; he saw another go under the water without having found anything to cling to. The only reason pirates hadn’t yet reached Cristoforo himself was that they were making some effort to cut loose the burning masts of the Genovese ship before the fire spread down to the deck. It looked to Cristoforo as though they might succeed, saving themselves and the cargo at the expense of the Genovese. That was intolerable. The Genovese would fail in any case—but Cristoforo could at least make certain that the pirates also failed.
Taking two more flaming pots in his hands, he lobbed one out onto the deck of his own ship, and then the second even farther, so that the helm was soon engulfed in flames. The pirates cried out in rage—those who weren’t screaming in pain or terror—and their eyes soon found Cristoforo and the ship’s boy on the forecastle.
“I think now’s the time for us to leap into the sea,” said Cristoforo.
“I can’t swim,” said the ship’s boy.
“I can,” said Cristoforo. But first he pulled up the hatch cover from the forecastle, dragged it to the gunwale, and heaved it over the side. Then, taking the boy by the hand, he jumped into the water just as the pirates swarmed up from the deck.
The boy was right about his inability to swim, and it took Cristoforo considerable effort just to get him up onto the hatch cover. But once the boy was safely atop the floating wood, he calmed down. Cristoforo tried to get part of his own weight onto the tiny raft, but it made it tilt dangerously down into the water, and the boy panicked. So Cristoforo let himself back down into the water. It was five leagues to shore, at least—more likely six. Cristoforo was a strong swimmer, but not that strong. He needed to cling to something to help bear his weight so he could rest in the water from time to time, and if it couldn’t be this hatch cover, he would have to leave it and find something else. “Listen, boy!” shouted Cristoforo. “The shore is that way!” He pointed.
Did the boy understand? His eyes were wide, but at least he looked at Cristoforo as he spoke.
“Paddle with your hands,” said Cristoforo. “That way!”
But the boy just sat there, terrified, and then he looked away from Cristoforo toward the burning ship.
It was too tiring, treading water while trying to communicate with this boy. He had saved the boy’s life, and now he had to get about the business of saving his own.
What he finally found, as he swam toward the invisible shore, was a floating oar, It wasn’t a raft and couldn’t lift him entirely out of the water, but by straddling the handle and keeping the blade of the oar fiat under his chest and face he was able to get some respite when his arms grew weary. Soon he left the smoke of the fires behind him. and then the sound of screaming men, though whether he ceased hearing that awful noise because he had swum so far or because all had drowned, he could not guess. He did not look back; he did not see the burning hulks finally slip down under the water. Already the ships were forgotten, and his commercial mission. All he thought of now was moving his arms and legs, struggling through the heaving waters of the Atlantic toward the ever-receding shore.
Sometimes Cristoforo was sure that there was a current running away from shore, that he was caught in it and would be carried away no matter what he did. He ached, his arms and legs were exhausted and could move no more, and yet he kept them moving, however weakly now, and at last, at last he could see that he was indeed much closer to shore than before. It gave him hope enough to keep going, though the pain in his joints made him feel as though the sea were tearing his limbs off.
He could hear the crashing of waves against the shore. He could see scruffy-looking trees on low bluffs. And then a wave broke around him, and he could see the beach. He swam farther, then tried to stand. He could not. Instead he collapsed back into the water, only now he had lost the oar and for a moment he went under the water, and it occurred to him that it would be such a foolish thing for him to swim so far only to drown on the beach because his legs were too weary to hold him.
Cristoforo decided not to do anything so foolish as to die here and now, though the idea of giving up and resting did have a momentary appeal. Instead he pushed against the bottom with his legs, and because the water was, after all, not deep, his head rose above the surface and he breathed again. Half swimming, half walking, he forced his way to shore and then crept across the wet until he reached dry sand. Nor did he stop then—some small rational part of his mind told him that he must get above the high tide, marked by the line of dried-up sticks and seaweed many yards beyond him. He crawled, crept, finally dragged himself to that line and beyond it; then he collapsed into the sand, unconscious at once.
It was the high tide that woke him, as several of the highest-reaching waves cast thin riffs of water up to the old high-tide line, tickling his feet and then his thighs. He woke up with a powerful thirst, and when he tried to move he found that all his muscles were on fire with pain. Had he somehow broken his legs and arms? No, he quickly realized. He had simply drawn from them more work than they had been designed to give, and he was paying for it now with pain.
Pain, though, was not going to make him stay on the beach to die. He got up onto all fours and crawled ahead until he reached the first tufts of shoregrass. Then he looked about for some sign of water he could drink. This close to shore it was almost too much to hope for, but how could he regain his strength without something to drink? The sun was setting. Soon it would be too dark to see, and while the night would cool him, it might as easily chill him, and weak as he was, it might kill him.
“Oh God,” he whispered through parched lips. “Water.”
Diko stopped the playback. “You all know what happens here, yes?”
“A woman from the village of Lagos comes and finds him,” said Kemal. “They nurse him back to health and then he leaves for Lisbon.”
“We’ve seen this in the Tempoview a thousand times,” said Hassan. “Or at least thousands of people have seen it at least once.”
“That’s exactly right,” said Diko. “You’ve seen it in the Tempoview.” She went over to one of the older machines, kept now only for playing back old recordings. She ran the appropriate passage at high speed; looking like a comical, jerky puppet, Columbus peered in one direction, and then fell back into the sand for a while, perhaps praying, until he knelt up again and crossed himself and said, “The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” It was in that posture that the woman of Lagos—Maria Luisa, daughter of Simão o Gordo, to be precise—found him. Also looking like a marionette in the fast Tempoview playback, she ran back to the village for help.
“Is this what you’ve all seen?” she asked.
It was.
“Obviously nothing happens,” she said. “So who would have bothered to come back to look at this with the TruSite II? But that is what I did, and here is what I saw.” She returned to the TruSite II and resumed the playback. They all watched as Columbus looked about for water, turning his head slowly, obviously exhausted and in pain. But then, to their shock, they heard a soft voice.
“Cristoforo Colombo,” said the voice.
A figure, then two figures, shimmered in the darkening air before Columbus. Now as he peered in that direction, all the watchers could see that he was not looking for water, but rather staring at the image that formed itself in the air.
“Cristóbal Colón. Coullon. Columbus.” The voice went on, calling his name in language after language. It was barely, barely audible. And the image never quite resolved itself into clarity.
“So tenuous,” murmured Hassan. “The Tempoview would never have been able to detect this. Like smoke or steam. A slight excitation of the air.”
“What are we seeing?” demanded Kemal.
“Be still and listen,” said Tagiri, impatient. “What conclusion can you reach before you’ve seen the data?”
They fell silen
t. They watched and listened.
The vision resolved itself into two men, shining with a faint nimbus all around them. And on the shoulder of the smaller of the two men there sat a dove. There could be no doubt in the mind of any medieval man, especially one who had read as much as Cristoforo, what this vision was supposed to represent. The Holy Trinity. Almost he spoke their names aloud. But they were still speaking, calling him by name in languages he had never heard.
Then, finally: “Columbus, you are my true servant.”
Yes, with all my heart I am.
“You have turned your heart to the east, to liberate Constantinople from the Turk.”
My prayer, my promise was heard.
“I have seen your faith and your courage, and that is why I spared your life on the water today. I have a great work for you to do. But it is not Constantinople to which you must bring the cross.”
Jerusalem, then?
“Nor is it Jerusalem, or any other nation touched by the waters of the Mediterranean. I saved you alive so you could carry the cross to lands much farther east, so far to the east that they can be reached only by sailing westward into the Atlantic.”
Cristoforo could hardly grasp what they were telling him. Nor could he bear to look upon them anymore—what mortal man had the right to gaze directly upon the face of the resurrected Savior, let alone the Almighty or the dove of the Holy Spirit? Never mind that this was only a vision; he could not look at them anymore. He lowered his head forward into the sand so he could not see them anymore, but listened all the more intently.
“There are great kingdoms there, rich in gold and powerful in armies. They have never heard the name of my Only Begotten, and they die unbaptized. It is my will that you carry salvation to them, and bring back the wealth of these lands.”
Cristoforo heard this and his heart burned with him. God had seen him, God had noticed him, and he was being given a mission far greater than the mere liberation of an ancient Christian capital. Lands so far to the east that he must sail west to reach them. Gold. Salvation.
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