The Holy Sail

by Abdulaziz Al-Mahmoud

  After a long wait, the coaches carrying dignitaries began to enter the wharf area. People craned their necks to see them, the clothes they were wearing and how many servants had come with them; most folk in Lisbon lived in extreme poverty and anything that showed wealth and affluence attracted them like moths to a flame.

  The guards started beating back the crowds with small whips to keep them away from the royal tent, as though they were disease-carrying pests. From time to time, people’s heads turned in the direction of a commotion or a scream, but their curiosity soon died away. The sound of whips cracking and people screaming had become a familiar part of public events such as this one. People hardly expected any occasion to proceed without this, as they had become accustomed to humiliation, which they rarely questioned.

  The king’s wagon arrived, pulled by four white horses. When people spotted it coming from afar, they started cheering and chanting for the king. Whip strikes increased in frequency, as the crowds pushed against the soldiers. When the whips could no longer do the job, the soldiers carried their spears horizontally with both hands and used them to push the crowds back again.

  Sweat mixed with the damp air, and the curses and insults on both sides with their shouts and screams, until trumpets blared announcing the arrival of the royal cavalcade.

  The pandemonium stopped and both the soldiers and the crowds automatically turned to the king’s coach. The king alighted and raised his right hand announcing his presence. A strange silence descended and everyone was suddenly calm as if by magic, save for a few murmurs; the stench still lingered. In the minds of the people, the king represented absolute authority, beginning with his sacred religious function and not ending with his ability to take people’s lives without convincing or comprehensible reasons. He represented God’s will on Earth, and he had to be accepted, despite the flaws, cruelty and bloodlust.

  A military band started playing funerary music. A group of sailors emerged from the edge of the wharf. They wore a coarse, woollen habit-like garment that was nothing more than a rectangular cloth with a hole cut for the head and tied at the waist with a thick rope. Their legs and arms were bare. They were made to look deliberately pitiful to emphasise their dedication to their cause and mission. Each sailor carried a large candle with both hands. Albuquerque led them at the front. He wore a long beard that he had sworn never to trim until he killed all Mohammedans and controlled the spice trade.

  The procession stopped before the king. They all kneeled like worshippers at an altar, and swore an oath of loyalty to him in a loud voice. After taking permission from the king, Albuquerque stood and made a speech.

  ‘Your Majesty, these are your loyal soldiers. They have volunteered to go to the ends of the Earth to rid the world of the Mohammedan heretics. Our goal is to spread Christianity on the shores that we shall conquer. We will raise our crosses there and rule in your name. Before this expedition, ships were sent to explore, but we will go there to defend the Holy Cross. I ask you, Your Majesty, to allow your humble servants to set sail so that we may carry out the duties you have entrusted us with.’

  Having finished his speech amid enthusiastic applause from the crowd, a tearful Albuquerque kneeled before the king and hugged, then kissed, his feet. A saintly atmosphere descended on the place, and people cried with Albuquerque, chanting religious slogans praising the king and the sacred mission he had personally organised. From that moment onwards, Portugal would enter an era of great conquests.

  Albuquerque was keen to look like a figure from the Bible. He too wore austere robes that were filthy and covered in mud and his speech asking for permission to spread Christianity among the heretics emulated the way Christ’s disciples asked Jesus to travel to the corners of the Earth to spread the faith. Albuquerque had designed this entire spectacle for only one purpose: to show that he had a sacred mission that the king and his subjects needed to support to the fullest extent.

  The king looked pleased with Albuquerque and ordered him to stand. Albuquerque stood up and joined his hands to his chest; his tears, which now merged with the falling rain, wetting his beard.

  The king tried to publicly show his gratitude for Albuquerque’s efforts and for the campaign he was going to lead. He said in a loud, authoritative voice, ‘I have given orders to the treasury to pay your wage and the wages of your officers and crewmen a year in advance. It will be ensured that you do not have any shortage of food on your journey. Each man shall have at sea the same meals he would have on shore. You have a difficult mission ahead: to spread Christianity across God’s Earth and join forces with Prester John to decimate every other religion!’

  As the king finished his speech, Albuquerque collapsed dramatically on the floor, and hugged the king’s feet again. He swore not to return until victory was achieved in the king’s name in the East, vowing to gladly submit his neck to the king’s sword should he fail.

  Some of the noblemen there were disgusted by Albuquerque’s theatrics before the king. They had never seen anyone behave this way before, and hoped this would not set a precedent for how they should show their loyalty to the king. They saw how pleased the king was with the contrived grovelling.

  Horns blared from the ships announcing the official start of the military expedition. Albuquerque stood back up and gave a special signal to the ship’s sailors. The mainsail of the flagship, the São Gabriel, dropped, revealing a large red cross. Just then, a sudden gust of wind hit the sail and thrust the ship forward, but the thick mooring rope prevented it from moving, which caused a violent jolt to push one of the sailors from the top of the mast onto the deck below. It was like a divine sign that the mission had been accepted and that this was its first victim.

  Albuquerque felt that he had to take advantage of this incident. This was not a time for bad omens and death, he thought, must be seen as proof of the holiness of his armada. Pointing at the sailor’s corpse, Albuquerque cried loudly, ‘It is the Holy Sail, Your Majesty, the Holy Sail that will sail East when you give your order. Our men will die for their cross and their king. God has put us on Earth for this mission and he will take our souls for this mission. We offer our lives for the king and the cross and this fallen man is the first martyr of our noble undertaking!’

  The king and his entourage crossed themselves simultaneously. The crowd saw this as a sign that they should start shouting, chanting and crying. People fell to their knees, took off their hats and scarves and recited prayers for the king and his sailors. The priests there took advantage of this sweeping religious sentiment to collect donations as they walked around carrying thuribles that burned incense to bless the crowd. Everyone felt they were the Lord’s soldiers, sent to rid the world of evil and heresy.

  After the commotion subsided, the king rose from his seat and walked to his coach. Albuquerque followed him and knelt one more time by its side in an exaggerated gesture of loyalty, as though he enjoyed humiliating himself.

  After the king left, Albuquerque summoned his men and proceeded to carry out the final inspection.

  An officer stepped forward and stood alert before Albuquerque, who looked almost comical in his strange garments, which were now soaking wet. His tousled hair covered parts of his face, and water was dripping from the pointed tip of his beard.

  Albuquerque had been raised in the royal palace with his father. The king had chosen him to lead the armada thanks to certain traits he had discovered in him: Albuquerque was an odd man. He was utterly convinced of the existence of Prester John and believed he was expecting the Portuguese. The king shared this strange obsession with him.

  Albuquerque was known for his fondness of the colour black. Everything he wore from head to toe was black, as though he was permanently in mourning until such time as the Earth was cleansed of heretics, and only his fellow Catholics were left alive. He wore a stiletto around his waist, and his beard was so long that it almost reached the handle of his dagger.

  His deputy began reading a report he had prepared earlier.
‘Captain, we have supplied the ships with enough food and water for three years. We have all the soldiers, equipment and munitions we need, and African guides and interpreters who are fluent in Arabic. We have also brought a group of convicted criminals whom we will use as scouts. The previous expeditions erected many crosses along the coasts they explored. Our men will never feel cut off, because the Lord will be with them at all times. They were selected very carefully. They are all experienced seafarers, have strong bodies and they can handle weapons very skilfully. They are the elite of our navy’s soldiers.’

  The officer looked at the sailors who were still dressed in their dirty clothes. Their appearance suggested they were fierce and violent men. Every man had scars on his face or head. They had beefy bodies and seemed like they were the kind of men who could kill with a smile.

  The officer looked at the wet parchment in his hands and continued. ‘The flagship carries twenty guns. They are enough to set alight every castle and put down any resistance. We only await your signal to set off, commander.’

  Albuquerque looked behind him and saw his aide Miguel Ferreira carrying Covilhã’s report. The file would guide the entire expedition. The conquistador felt reassured that the armada was ready, and that all that was left was for him to give the order. He signalled to his deputy to do so, and the officer bellowed, ‘To your ships! Take your positions!’

  The sails were unfurled slowly and cumbersomely. They were also wet, but the gusts that were still blowing helped drop them faster and fill them, pushing what water was left in them off and onto the sailors below. The sails then firmed up and arched, overwhelmed by the north wind.

  The ships left the port of Lisbon pushed by heavy, moist winds. Flocks of sea birds followed them, still hoping to get fed.

  Albuquerque entered his cabin to get changed. Minutes later, he emerged wearing his favourite black garments. Stroking his beard, he called out for his secretary Miguel, who came running, still clutching Covilhã’s report.

  Miguel was a short man. He had a broad jaw and his nose was deformed from an old battle wound. He had served with Albuquerque in North Africa and fought with him in many battles. He had been taken prisoner for many years, during which he was able to learn Arabic. After a prisoner swap, he returned to his country a poor and destitute man with a grudge against the king and the nobility. Miguel was greatly pleased when he learned that Albuquerque would be leading the new armada, and asked to accompany him. Albuquerque, in turn, was pleased to have such a person in his crew, because people like Miguel did not hesitate to do anything, no matter how base and wicked. Albuquerque liked that about him.

  ‘Have you taken a look at the file, Miguel?’

  ‘Not yet, my lord. I do nothing without your permission.’

  Albuquerque’s face remained as gloomy as always. He did not stop stroking his beard. ‘You do everything without permission, Miguel. Go and read it because I want to hear your opinion when we get close to our destination.’

  Miguel perused the file carefully for several days after that, trying to memorise every sentence and every line. By sunrise on the fourth day, he murmured to himself, ‘I hope everything this Jew has written is true! If it is, blood will mix with spice, and Albuquerque will love nothing more than to taste the mixture!’

  He laughed out loud, imagining Albuquerque savouring this gruesome combination.

  – 17 –

  The Arabian Sea

  Hussein sailed with his fleet from Aden to the east. His Yemeni guide told him the journey would take a month. This was not particularly long for him and his crew, but Hussein prayed he would not encounter the Portuguese en route. There were no friendly ports where he could drop anchor and re-supply or repair his ships after Aden. He was not known in the ports along the way and they could well decline him entry, especially when they realised that his ships were not merchant vessels. Any problem along the way, Hussein thought, was going to seriously affect the fate of his campaign.

  Hussein did not want to share his concerns with his officers and crew, and kept it all to himself. A few days after setting off, as he paced the main deck of his ship, he saw the Yemeni guide standing and looking in the direction of the north. He came and stood next to him.

  The guide felt the pasha’s presence. ‘To the north of here is the Gulf, Hussein Pasha. We have received reports that the Ottomans have reached the area. It is rumoured that a contingent of musketeers has been dispatched by the sharif of Mecca to train the soldiers of his brother-in-law, the Jabrid ruler in Al-Ahsa. I would reckon the musketeers travelled there from Basra, as this would be easier than crossing the Arabian desert. The bunduqiya muskets they carry are strange weapons, Pasha! They are faster and deadlier than the bow and arrow and have a longer range.’

  He continued, and his voice took on a regretful tone. ‘We have some muskets in Yemen brought by merchants, but they are extremely rare and very expensive. We also have some cannons that the sultan purchased from India with some cannonballs but they have started to rust. We don’t know how to maintain them. Someone said we should coat them with fish oil from time to time, and I saw some soldiers doing that as we left the port. These cannons could be our last chance to defend Aden if the Portuguese were to stage a surprise invasion.’

  The guide lifted his gaze to the sky, and said in the tone of someone predicting the weather, ‘If I were a Portuguese commander, I would try to take three ports in particular at the mouths of the Gulf and the Red Sea.’

  ‘Which ports do you mean?’

  ‘Hormuz, Qalhat and Aden. Truth be told, Hussein Pasha, I put my hand on my heart each time I hear the Portuguese have appeared somewhere. They most certainly know what we know, and they will come at us with all their muskets and cannons.’

  Hussein looked to the north. He could not see anything except an infinite blue horizon stretching all the way to where the sea met the sky.

  The guide kept his eyes focused on the horizon as if he could see something Hussein could not.

  ‘Tell me more,’ Hussein said.

  ‘When the wind is favourable, a sailing ship can cross the Gulf from south to north in four days or less, and from east to west in two days or less. It is really like a small lake, Hussein Pasha.’

  Hussein checked the horizon again, as though he started to see something. He chose his words carefully, keen to get as much information out of this man as possible. He asked, ‘And which are the most important ports in the Gulf?’

  ‘There are many, of different sizes. The most important port is Hormuz on the eastern approach of the Gulf, followed by Siraf, and then Basra in the northernmost part of the Gulf. On the west coast, the key ports are Bahrain, Al-Uqair, then Oman, Sohar, Muscat and Qalhat along the western approaches.’

  Hussein had grabbed a rope and latched on to it to relieve the pressure on his leg, which was starting to ache. He was still looking to the north. ‘Who are the kings ruling those parts?’

  ‘The strongest kingdom is Hormuz. It is a small island a few thousand cubits away from the Persian mainland, and about two days’ journey from here. A powerful king ruled Hormuz but he died recently. His sons are still fighting over who should succeed him. This kingdom was able to conquer most ports on the western coast, whose sultans and emirs continue to pay tributes to Hormuz to this day.’

  The guide spat into the sea before he continued. ‘It is a rich, well-governed kingdom. The Hormuzis have many galleys of different classes, and do not rely on the wind alone to sail. They can quickly deploy a large number of soldiers in any port they want, and it is said that they have around 5,000 well-armed soldiers. They also have access to mercenaries from all nearby kingdoms. They have enough money to pay for anything they want to do, including war.’

  The guide tapped on the ship’s wood unconsciously. ‘The emirs who rule the coasts of Oman mostly belong to the ruling family in Hormuz or those who are related to it by marriage. But over time, they started serving their own interests, though they still regularly
pay their annual taxes to the king of Hormuz.’

  Hussein pulled the tail of his turban from behind his neck and used it to dry the sweat from his face. ‘You had mentioned something about a Jabrid sultan. Who is he?’

  ‘He is the most powerful sultan in the western Gulf. He lives in Hajr, or as people call it today, Al-Ahsa. He sometimes sojourns in Bahrain. The sultan owns a vast swathe of land extending from the desert south of Basra all the way to Dhofar. His kingdom encompasses all of Najd, and he is married to the daughter of the sharif of Hejaz. We heard his army comprises 30,000 horsemen, camel cavaliers and infantrymen, but he has no navy to speak of. He is a wealthy sultan, or so I’ve heard. Some of his soldiers live in the Omani hinterland, and we have heard that he sends his soldiers to assist the emirs of the coast whenever they request it.’

  The guide paused. ‘It is rumoured that the Jabrid sultan wants to have a port of his own on the Omani coast, but he does not want to clash with the king of Hormuz.’

  Hussein wanted to get additional information from someone who had first-hand knowledge of the area. ‘Have you visited any of these ports?’

  ‘Yes, Hussein Pasha. I have visited Hormuz, Oman, Bahrain and, of course, Sohar.’ The guide paused again, then said, ‘The ships that come from India and China must stop in Hormuz before continuing to any other destination. The ships coming from Zanzibar, Mombasa or even Sofala and other faraway ports must re-supply in Sohar. These ports are familiar to all sailors and travellers in this region. Most ships entering the Gulf are bound for Basra ultimately, where they can sell their cargoes at reasonable profits. From that entrepôt, goods are taken via the river to Baghdad, and from there, to Aleppo, where merchants can make even larger profits. However, this route has been cut off as the Safavids recently invaded Baghdad.’

  Hussein’s body stiffened, as though he had felt a sharp pain in his back. He pointed to the east and said, ‘We will get to India within twenty days, as you said. Do you know which port we should call at there?’