by John Regan
Chapter 3
Over the next few days Pigafetta went exploring from the rank and dark bilges infested with rats and other vermin at the bottom of the ship to the top of the mast where he had a panoramic view of the city and the river and shuddered to think what it would be like up there at sea in a storm.
At the break of the quarterdeck was a figure of the Virgin Mary and he noted how many of the crew walking past it crossed themselves like some secret rite of witchcraft. He was still trying to disentangle his feelings for God, Jesus and the Virgin Mary from his view of priests, the Vatican and the Pope, whom Martin Luther had labelled the Antichrist. This dilemma was at the bottom of Pigafetta’s discontent.
He discovered that a ship is like a miniature city only it smells worse. It had a social hierarchy from the captain general down to the lowliest cabin boy and he learned that his own status at a thousand a month was less than that of the captain general’s slave, Henriqué, on fifteen hundred, which seemed to be the line of demarcation between officers and crew. Not that he was particularly concerned about his onboard status but he needed to know where he belonged in the scheme of things. Supernumerary made him sound like some kind of unnecessary appendage, which he was determined not to be.
The captain general still searched for a ship to complete his allocation and mentioned he had heard of a suitable vessel in Cadiz. Having never been there, Pigafetta volunteered to join him. Cadiz was second only to Seville in the Spanish nautical enterprise.
“You’re a queer sort of fellow, aren’t you, Pigafetta?” the captain general said.
“Not the description I would use myself, Captain General.”
“Poke your nose into everything. I can’t turn around without tripping over you.”
“I have much to learn, Captain General.”
“Can you ride a horse?”
“Of course.”
They set off at dawn on magnificent chestnut stallions; Pigafetta, Magellan and another supernumerary named Duarte Barbosa, a fleshy man with an easy laugh and baggy pants who seemed to have no specified role aboard Trinidad. The captain general set the pace, alternating an hour’s canter with an hour’s walk, not to tire the horses. Pigafetta enjoyed the ride and also Duarte’s conversation during the hour of walking, when the captain general usually pressed ahead, although Duarte’s Spanish, like Magellan’s was not good. They sometimes reverted to Latin.
He learned that Duarte was a literary man who had published a book about his adventures in the Orient; adventures entwined with those of Magellan. They fought in the Battle of Diu with Almeida, and of Goa with Albuquerque.
“The thing you have to realise about Ferdinand,” Duarte confided, “is that once he makes up his mind to do something, nothing will get in his way. You should have been with us there in Cochin. He was the one who practically single-handed cleaned out the Kunjali Marakkars from Calicut – pirates who kept picking off our ships and Almeida, the governor, was just an old woman. Ferdinand took them on with a couple of bergantyms armed with falconets and stamped them out. Softened up the Zamorin for Albuquerque. Stay on his right side and you’ll be fine; get on his wrong side and you’ll be in trouble.”
“I will try to avoid getting on his wrong side.”
“Don’t worry; he has gone a bit soft lately. He’s getting married in a couple of weeks. That will do it every time.”
“I never heard about that,” said Pigafetta, who always liked to keep up with the gossip. “Who is he marrying?”
“My little sister, Beatriz. They are going to announce it in the next day or two. Just between you and me, he had another reason for coming to Spain apart from the armada.”
“Beatriz?”
“Absolutely. They were sweethearts when we were children but then he went away to the East, and then he fought in the war in Morocco – that’s where he got the gammy leg – and Beatriz never married although she had plenty of offers, but she never talked about him either and in all that time they probably exchanged about four or five letters and now they are engaged to be married.”
“It’s a real love story.”
Absolutely. You wouldn’t think it, looking at him, would you?”
“No,” Pigafetta said. “You certainly wouldn’t.”
It was nearly dark when they rode into the fortress city on the harbour of Cadiz and searched for an inn and a bed for the night. Pigafetta ached all over and excused himself after dinner but was kept awake by the singing led by Duarte in a fine tenor voice. Tomorrow they would go in search of the fifth ship but tonight Duarte and Magellan enjoyed themselves.
In the morning, the captain general enquired of the innkeeper about a ship called Santiago.
“Santiago. Yes, I believe she came in a few days ago. That’s the little caravel that runs out to the Canaries with wine. Serrano is her master.”
“Who?”
“Serrano. Captain Serrano. Portuguese. Portuguese scum are taking over everywhere. We should kick ‘em out like the Moors and the Jews.”
“Serrano? Are you sure?”
“Señor, I did not see his baptism certificate but I believe that’s the name he goes by.”
“Mother of God,” Duarte and Magellan exclaimed together.
“Where is Santiago?”
“Up by Santa Catalina. What’s the problem?”
“He’s an old shipmate,” Duarte called back as he and Magellan headed out the door.
“Wait a minute. You haven’t paid the tick.”
But they had disappeared and it was left to Pigafetta to settle the score before rushing after them.
Santiago lay alongside a stone jetty loading cargo. As they watched, a huge barrel was hoisted off the jetty in a net and swung across to the ship on the foremast gaff. The captain general stood back and looked her over.
“Not bad,” he said. “Nice lines. A handy rig.”
“What do you mean, Captain General?”
“See the difference between Trinidad and this one? She has lateen sails, not squares. That means she can sail to windward and she’ll be quick to manoeuvre. She will also have shallow draft. She will be our scout.”
He hailed the men on deck, “Ahoy Santiago. Is your captain aboard?”
They paused in their work and pointed aft to the main cabin. A man emerged from the accommodation area and leaned over the bulwark, peering down at them.
“Mother of God, Magellan is that you? Is that you Ferdinand?”
“Not a ghost, old man. The real thing.”
'The captain clattered down the gangway and with cries of delight and disbelief they fell to shaking hands and slapping one another on the back. It was indeed João Serrão, Magellan’s captain when he first sailed East in ’05 in Annunciada, and a distant cousin. It was several years since they had last met and Serrão declared a holiday for the occasion, took them aboard to his cabin and cracked open a bottle of fine Frontera wine.
“This is Pigafetta,” the captain general said, jerking a thumb at him. “We’re not quite sure what he does. Now, what have you been up to, you old dog? And have you heard from Paco?”
“Paco? Paco is lost to the world. Last letter I had was about three months ago, and it was written about six months before that. Living the life of luxury, he is. I think he has about three wives, half a dozen slaves and calls himself an adviser to the sultan. It’s unbelievable, some of the tales he tells.”
“He knows we’re coming, so I hope he’s prepared for us.”
“Well, you know Paco. He’s probably not prepared for anything.”
“What is your position with this ship?”
“We run out to the Canaries with wine and back with olives or anything else. It’s owned by one of the Guzmàn family.”
“I don’t suppose he would like to join the Armada de Moluccas?”
Serrão threw his head back and laughed a great belly laugh. “You don’t suppose...? If there is a smell of money about it he’ll be all over it like a bitch on heat.”
“What’s that?”
“How are you spelling your name? Spanish style, Juan Serrano, or Portuguese style João Serrão?”
“It depends what mood I’m in and it depends if I’m in Portugal or Spain. Sometimes one, sometimes the other. Why?”
I want you to use the Spanish style from now on and I want you to become a citizen of Andalucía, like me. My Spanish name is Hernando Magallanes. You are going to have to become a Spaniard, Juan Serrano. If I were to bring another Portuguese captain into the fleet there would be uproar.”
The rest of that day became a blur in Pigafetta’s memory. They repaired back to the inn and tall were the tales told long into the night and many the toasts to the absent Paco, John Serrano’s brother and Magellan’s cousin and comrade-in-arms through many adventures in the East.
Duarte thought the idea of Paco as adviser to a sultan extremely quaint, and told a story of the junk they captured in the Andaman Sea. Somehow, Paco managed to get himself aboard the junk, which was nearly lost in a cyclone, but later had to be sunk because of a damaged rudder and took a treasure to the bottom.
“But don’t worry; he knows how to look after himself. He was there in Malacca in the year ten. He is a good man to have on side.”
“What do you think, Pigafetta? Are you up to it?” the captain general asked and slapped him on the back with a laugh.
Pigafetta soaked up these stories like a child listening to nursery tales. Apart from the obvious embellishments they were real stories, not fantasies.
“I shall try, Captain General. I shall try.”
“That’s a good start. You won’t get anywhere if you don’t try.”
Pigafetta suffered from a sore head in the morning but Duarte and Magellan seemed not affected by the wine consumed that night. The ride back to Seville was an agony and he realised his education as a sailor had further to go, and also his effort to earn the captain general’s confidence, if not respect.
When Pigafetta told the captain general he had experience in financial matters he was not lying. He had once been treasurer for a fête at his school and had to account for the money from the stalls and sideshows and Punch and Judy. On another occasion his father had required him to make an inventory of all the furniture, jewellery and artwork in their house, which he was proposing to use as collateral for a loan to invest in a ship going to Constantinople for spices. Fortunately, his father had decided against the investment, because the ship sank in a storm. That was Pigafetta’s first brush with the economics of the spice trade.
The present enterprise was a different thing altogether. The Casa de Contratación had allocated a budget of nearly ten million maravedis to buy the ships, fit them out, employ crew and provide enough food for two years. Pigafetta was not responsible for accounting for all that but he was not sure exactly what he was responsible for. Surveying the task, he found it overwhelming, but did not want to reveal his ignorance by asking the captain general. Sharing a bottle of wine at a waterfront tavern, he asked Duarte instead.
“Don’t worry about the numbers,” Duarte said with a wave of his hand. “There are two accountants aboard San Antonio to do the numbers –Cartagena, who is the bastard son of Bishop Fonseca, and de Coca, who is the bastard son of Fonseca’s brother, Bishop Alonso. San Antonio is the ship of bishops’ bastards, the unholy nephews.”
“Did you say Alonso?”
“Yes. These so-called celibate priests breed like rabbits. I wouldn’t be surprised if every one of them had three or four so-called nephews and nieces.”
“Alonso,” said Pigafetta. “I know a Bishop Alonso.”
“Good for you. Anyway, you want to tell Ferdinand the best thing you can do is write his letters for him. I mean, he can get by in Spanish and so can I but we wouldn’t want to be writing letters to the king or Fonseca or anyone. You speak Spanish. I suppose you can write it also.”
“And French, and Italian, and a bit of German and Portuguese.”
“Well, there you are. Get yourself a new job.”
“I can’t just tell the captain general I want a new job.”
“Then I will.”
The notion of priests with illegitimate children was nothing new but in this case Duarte told him that neither Cartagena nor de Coca had ever been to sea. They were both accountants, or numbers men, as Duarte called them. With the sacking of Faleiro due to insanity, Fonseca had appointed Cartagena captain of the biggest ship of the fleet and Inspector General, a new position that appeared nowhere in the armada’s documentation. Pigafetta was astounded. Cartagena was no better qualified than he to be a ship’s captain. Perhaps he could become a captain himself. Fonseca’s intention was obvious to Pigafetta, well acquainted with priestly turpitude. He was undermining the captain general’s authority before the armada ever put to sea. The fleet accountant or treasurer, de Coca, was stationed aboard San Antonio, not the flagship, Trinidad, so the captain general did not have control over the numbers for which he was responsible. That sort of thing happened all the time in the Vatican, especially under Pope Leo.
The thing that shocked Pigafetta was that Sr Velasquez had mentioned Cartagena as a friend, and obviously there was a link between Ana and Bishop Alonso. How could Alonso be Ana’s uncle and Fonseca’s brother? In that case, Fonseca would also have to be Ana’s uncle. How many uncles does she have?
He required time to digest Duarte’s revelation. He had planned to go to Ana that evening but at the foot of the gangway he paused, glanced left to the bridge of Triana, glanced right to the Tower of Gold, the edifice built by the Moors as part of the city’s defences, and turned his steps towards the Tower. He spent some hours sitting on the river bank watching the stars reflected in the water and pushing unwanted thoughts out of his mind. Eventually, he went back on board and climbed into his narrow bunk lamenting the absence of Ana. What was he going to say to her?
Next day, the captain general called him into his cabin and even invited him to sit, the first time Pigafetta had been granted this privilege.
“Pigafetta, I have decided you can be better employed as my scribe,” he said. “We can leave the numbers to the numbers men. I want you to write a letter to Bishop Fonseca to inform him I require authorisation to purchase the vessel Santiago under the terms of the contract. He can make the money available to señor Sebastian de Guzmàn. They can argue over the price between them.”
So, evidently Duarte had made good on his promise to get him a job as scribe.
“Captain General, don’t you think it would be better to write first to the king because the contract is between you and the king, not between you and Fonseca. The king can then issue orders to Fonseca. That would be the diplomatic way to do it.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Trouble is, the king is surrounded by bishops, so it doesn’t make much difference. And he’s only a child, anyway. And he’s only a foreigner anyway.”
“A foreigner like you, Captain General. Yes, that is the problem. The whole country is run by priests. Italy is bad enough but Spain is worse.”
“I’ll leave it up to you. You have experience in these things.”
“Diplomacy is all about saving face, Captain General. As for the price, you are in a better position to decide the price than anyone. Certainly better than Fonseca. And we wouldn’t want to put temptation in Fonseca’s way, would we?”
“Well, I only had a quick look at her but I guess she’s worth about two hundred thousand.”
“I shall put that proposal to the king.”
“By the way; I’m getting married in a couple of weeks. You can write the invitations.”
“Congratulations, Captain General.”
When he saw Ana that evening Pigafetta had already made up his mind to say nothing about his uneasiness, although another irregularity had come to mind. Why was Alonso’s portrait absent from the gallery in Calle San
Jorge?
“I was expecting you last night,” she said with a pout.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t feeling well.”
“What’s the matter? Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?”
“No, no, no. It’s nothing. Probably just something I ate. I am perfectly all right now.”
“I don’t want you getting sick,” she said, and gave him a hug and a kiss on the nose.
She was concerned about him. Pigafetta chided himself for suspecting her of he knew not what. What was to be suspicious about?
Sr Velasquez sat in the same armchair reading the same book, which he snapped shut when Ana and Pigafetta entered. He seemed more congenial this time and it might even have been a smile that briefly touched his lips.
After the greetings he rang a bell on the table beside his chair.
“Would you like a glass of manzanilla?”
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
“So, are they keeping you busy on board Trinidad?”
“Yes, there is a lot happening. I am actually having to work for a living these days.”
Sitting beside him on a red velvet couch, Ana squeezed his thigh.
“I hear you took a trip to Cadiz,” Sr Velasquez said.
“Yes, the captain general was inspecting a new ship.”
“That’s interesting. What sort of ship?”
“It’s a caravel. It has lateen sails, you know.”
“Yes, I do know what a caravel is. And is the captain general planning to buy more ships?”
“I don’t think so. There are only five allowed under the contract.”
“Ah, the contract. Yes, the contract. How much does the new ship cost?”
“No price has been agreed, señor. Even so, I would not be at liberty to disclose the amount.”
“Ah, secrets!”
A slave entered with wine on a tray and passed it around. Searching for a diversionary tactic, Pigafetta seized upon the cultivation and properties of manzanilla, the local light wine. That conversation carried them safely through dinner but it was a relief when the old man was carried off to bed and Ana led him in the opposite direction.
Once the passion cooled he snuggled up, feeling her chest rise and fall with her light breathing, smelling the scent of her body and a different one in her hair. By a shaft of moonlight on the curtains he made out the exquisite profile of her nose and the smooth dome of her forehead. He hugged her close and whispered in her ear, “Did you know Juan de Cartagena is the natural son of Bishop Fonseca.?”
“That is a rumour. It could be true.”
“And Antonio de Coca?”
She rolled on her side to look at him in the dim light.
“Why are you asking me these questions?”
“It’s my upbringing, I suppose. Born gossiper.”
“There is much gossip about Cartagena and de Coca. Whether there is any truth in it, I wouldn’t know.”
“The captain general is getting married soon. We have to decide who to invite to the wedding. We probably should invite Cartagena and the other captains.”
“It would be a snub if you didn’t.”
“Do you want to come?”
“The wedding of a captain general is always a big event in Seville, even if he is Portuguese. Yes, I would like to come.”
“I will suggest it to the captain general,” he said, and kissed her. “We should invite your father too.”
“He wouldn’t come. He doesn’t like going out in public. He has no legs but I am his eyes and ears.”
Pigafetta disapproved of marriage as a matter of principle. Why spoil a romance by turning a lover into a wife, was the way he looked at it. Over the last couple of weeks he had watched a seasoned warrior, world traveller, ocean-going sailor, a tough customer by any measure evolve into a shadow of his former self. Duarte, who shared Pigafetta’s views on marriage, had kept him informed of events in the Barbosa household, where Magellan lived when not aboard ship.
“The women are just frantic,” he said, shaking his head. “Beatriz has her maid and four or five friends and of course our mother and they all have their own opinions about what the groom should wear. They are just bullies; that’s what they are. Poor old Ferdinand is certainly not captain of his own wedding. He has tried on seven doublets in the last three days and none of them any good according to the women.”
Pigafetta could personally attest to the shaken confidence of a once forthright man. He had come up to him one day and said almost sheepishly, “You’re a man of fashion, Pigafetta. What do you think of my shoes?”
They were exactly the same as his own, so what could he say?
“Very elegant, Captain General. I congratulate you on your taste.”
“A lot of fuss, these weddings. Are you married?”
“No; I have managed to avoid it so far.”
Pigafetta’s task was the guest list. Duarte brought him a roll call of Seville’s high society: the Ponce de Lèons, the Gallegos, Navarettes, Guzmàns and other prominent families. Many derived their wealth from the colonies or the slave trade that sustained the colonies and nearly all had some interest in ships in general or the Armada de Moluccas in particular. Dom Diogo had fled Dom Manuel’s Portugal over ten years before and, despite his unfortunate nationality, had served as Lord Mayor of Seville and accumulated wealth, influential friends and quite a few enemies. In his box of a cabin and using his bunk board as a desk, Pigafetta penned in his best calligraphy: Dom Diogo Barbosa, alcalde, requests the pleasure of your company…etc.”
At the top of the guest list was Cristóbal de Haro and la Señora. Another refugee from Dom Manuel’s Portugal, De Haro was now one of the richest men in Europe and held mortgages over several kingdoms. Pigafetta had seen the numbers for the Armada de Moluccas. Of the ten million maravedis investment, de Haro provided Don Carlos with nearly half at an interest rate of 14 per cent. Accounting for this vast amount of money lay in the hands of Cartagena and de Coca and hence Fonseca.
As the acceptances came in, there were four notable absences: Fonseca, Cartagena and Captains Mendoza and Quesada of Victoria and Concepción.
“Diplomatically speaking, this could be considered a snub or an insult,” Pigafetta said. “However, I would advise against any rash response, Captain General.”
“You can bet they are acting on Fonseca’s orders,” Magellan said with a growl. “He is determined to provoke me, just as he provoked Columbus. He wants his bastard in command of the armada.”
“That may be, but if he succeeds he will have won the contest and you will have lost, just as Columbus lost.”
“Am I supposed to just ignore this insult?”
“No. I would suggest writing a note saying you are sorry they are unable to attend and you hope to have the pleasure of their company some time in the future.”
“What?”
“Or words to that effect. It’s the diplomatic thing to do, Captain General.”
Magellan failed to take his advice, however. Pigafetta never really thought he would.
On the day, Pigafetta joined the wedding guests arriving at the church of Santa Maria de la Victoria by coach, on foot or horseback. Caballeros in their finery rode proud stallions with their ladies sitting side-saddle on the rump. One of the things that really impressed Pigafetta about Seville was the horses. Ana arrived in a green sedan chair decorated with golden scrolls carried by the two slaves he had seen before. She waved as she climbed out of it, dismissed the slaves and kissed him on the cheek. She was wearing a short gown that didn’t even reach her ankles, guaranteed to cause a scandal here. Perhaps that’s why she did it.
She seemed to know many of the guests and introduced him to a few so he was able to put faces to what so far had been only names and candid biographies by Duarte. It was an interesting exercise. One grandee who had been responsible for the massacre of over two hundred Indians in Hispaniola according to Duarte, seemed as meek as a shoe cleaner and had a handshake like a damp lett
uce leaf. Pigafetta found him utterly repulsive, but perhaps Duarte was wrong. He had been so busy that he had not seen Ana for a few days. He had nearly forgotten how beautiful she was, how poised, how confident, or perhaps just cheeky. When it came time to move inside he took her arm like an old married man.
All in black, with a mantilla of fine lace on a tortoise-shell comb and a sprig of rosemary at her breast for luck, Beatriz made the slow march down the aisle on her father Dom Diogo’s arm. She carried a bouquet of white roses with her gaze fixed on the gilded statue of the Virgin celebrating victory over the Moors at Màlaga. Dom Diogo, in a dark, floor-length robe, looked solemn and proud, walking stiffly beside her. The priest in a white cassock awaited them with his hands folded before him while the captain general kneeled at his feet and Duarte fumbled for the gold band that Magellan would eventually slip on the lady’s finger and claim her as his wife.
During the service Ana and Pigafetta sat hand in hand except when responding to the priest’s demands to kneel or genuflect. When the priest said, “I now pronounce you man and wife.” Magellan lifted his new wife’s veil and kissed her to a round of applause from the congregation. It seemed to Pigafetta that a certain untidiness had been cleared away; unfinished business concluded and another romance buried in the graveyard of marriage.
The first cool breeze of evening was coming off the river as they emerged from the chapel. The de Haro mansion was the venue for the celebration and several carriages waited to transport those who wished to attend. The bride and groom led the way in an open cabriolet. Pigafetta and Ana found themselves travelling with Señor and Señora Hernàndez, of advanced years and strong opinions regarding the failure of the priest to include the Magnificat in the service.
“It is entirely appropriate for a wedding ceremony,” Señora Hernàndez said, “and, what’s more, it was composed by our own Sevillano, Peñalosa. This priest is obviously a foreigner from Barcelona or some other Godless place.”
“Very likely, Señora,” Pigafetta said. “ Barcelona is well known for Godless priests.”
“You’re Italian aren’t you? I can tell from your accent. What would you know?”
”My lady friend here knows Barcelona well.”
Ana gave him a sharp jab in the ribs and hissed, “Don’t be ridiculous, Antonio.”
He steered the conversation towards Sevillean roses, a topic on which Ana and Señora Hernàndez were in complete agreement. Sevillean roses had become an important diplomatic tool, he realised.
The wide patio of the de Haro residence was strung with lamps on ornamental trees and waiters circulated among the guests with a selection of wines on trays. Dom Diogo Barbosa and Señor de Haro made speeches of congratulation and wishes for a bright future for the happy couple, seconded by a round of cheers from the crowd. They couldn’t clap because they had at least one hand occupied.
A troupe of little girls filed on to the forecourt and danced a Flamenco with clapping hands and stamping heels, swirling skirts and flying pigtails, all to a wailing lament and the strumming of guitars. Pigafetta was stamping his own feet in time to the rhythm and felt an insane urge to grab hold of Ana and dance away with her, but suppressed this irresponsible impulse.
Moving into the house, they found a banquet table loaded with tapas and wine and candelabra. A chamber orchestra on a dais played sedate music and the buzz of conversation filled the lofty hall like the sounds of the seashore. With Ana’s hand in his he made his way towards the captain general, introduced Ana and offered his congratulations. Magellan was positively beaming. He had never seen him like this before. He put his arm around his wife and said, “I am a lucky man tonight. A fine ship and a fine wife. Pity about my captains.”
La Señora de Haro emerged from the crowd like a galleon under full sail with her husband and the Portuguese ambassador, Álvaro da Costa, in tow. The last time Pigafetta had seen da Costa had been in Valladolid, where the ambassador was arguing that Don Carlos should have nothing to do with the traitor, Fernão Magalhàes.
“Your uncle, Dom Manuel, will be most distressed if you proceed with this wicked plan, Your Majesty,” he had said, stretching the bounds of diplomacy with such language.
It was Cardinal Adrian, the king’s tutor, who fended da Costa off with the promise that any agreement with Hernando Magellanas would ensure that his Most Serene Majesty of Portugal would have no cause for concern and Dom Manuel’s marriage to a Princess of Castile would strengthen the bonds between their two nations
Pigafetta was astonished when da Costa nodded at Ana with a little smile of recognition. What did Ana have to do with the Portuguese ambassador? he wondered.
“Ah, Ferdinand, there you are,” La Señora said. She then pointed her finger at Pigafetta as if accusing him of stealing her purse. “I know you. I met you in Valladolid at the palace, did I not?”
“You did, Señora.”
“What was your name?”
“Pigafetta, Señora. Still is.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
He was glad he didn’t get his name wrong and the great Cristóbal de Haro gave him a reassuring nod behind her back.
“Ferdinand, I have been having an interesting conversation with Dom Álvaro. You know Dom Álvaro, don’t you?”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance once again, Captain General,” da Costa said, “and congratulations on your marriage.”
The captain general merely nodded.
“Dom Álvaro has come up with a clever suggestion to solve our problems, Ferdinand,” La Señora said while her husband smiled wanly, with raised eyebrows. “As you know, Dom Manuel is behind in his payments. I mean, that man owes us millions. It is just scandalous. The biggest empire in history and he can’t pay his bills. Dom Álvaro has suggested a way for us to get paid, for you to get your ships and Dom Manuel to establish trade with the Spice Isles. So simple, I wonder I didn’t think of it myself.”
“And what would that suggestion be, Señora?”
“Simple. You go back to Portugal, let Dom Manuel finance the ships (which means, of course, we will finance the ships.) and when you come back we take our share of the cargo before Dom Manuel can get his hands on it. That way we make sure Dom Manuel pays his bills.”
“Senhor Magalhàes,” the ambassador said, “Dom Manuel is deeply grieved by the misunderstanding at your last meeting and begs you to reconsider. You are welcome to return to Portugal, in which case there would be a handsome reward and command of a fine fleet. Ten ships. Twenty ships, even.”
The captain general’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You disappoint me, Ambassador. I was ready to credit you with more intelligence than a flea, but I see I was mistaken. Now, if you will excuse me, my wife and I have other things to do.”
The captain general retired upstairs and it was some hours later that La Señora paraded through the salon with the bloodstained sheets from the bridal bed, proclaiming, “See the sheet; see the sheet! She is proved a virgin.”