Excerpt: In Magellan's Wake

Malacca, August 1511

The sack of the city was proceeding rather nicely, Fernão thought to himself as he picked his way through the ruined streets. The sound of minor skirmishes still echoed in the distance, punctuated occasionally by the sharp crack of Portuguese muskets, but for the most part the overwhelmed natives had fled like grains of sand scattered by a wave. Still, it was best not to be overconfident, and so he had arranged for an escort of to accompany him, in case he had the misfortune to stumble upon a misguided pocket of resistance.

Their victory had been comprehensive without resorting to excessive levels of destruction, and Fernão took great pride in that. The city of Malacca had been a surprisingly tough nut to crack; its defenders had far outnumbered the Portuguese sailors and soldiers whose ranks had already been thinned by their arduous journey halfway around the world, but the glorious Admiral Afonso de Albuquerque's troops had superior armor, weaponry and military discipline. They had expected to take the city in a matter of days, but it had taken more than two weeks before they were able to muster the hammer blow that had finally driven the treacherous Sultan Mahmud inland, leaving the city at their mercy.

As he led his company of sailors towards a large compound that appeared to have been spared the fires that had swept the city during an earlier assault, Fernão reflected on the genius of Admiral de Albuquerque. Perched on the edge of the vital maritime strait that bore its name, Malacaa was a city of immeasurable wealth, a thriving hub of commerce and, most importantly, the gateway to all the riches of the Indies. It was the key to establishing Portuguese dominance over the lucrative spice trade, in an age where pepper was worth its weight in gold.

In short, it was a prize to be taken and preserved, not destroyed, and de Albuquerque, in his infinite wisdom, had gone to great lengths to impress that fact upon his troops. The result was quite possibly the most restrained and organized sack of a city that Fernão had ever seen. The sailors, in recognition of their indispensable service, were magnanimously given the first opportunity to sweet through the city and claim whatever spoils of war they could lay their callused hands on, and as commander of the Grande Taforea, it was only right that he lead his men to the treasure.

The compound was one of the larger ones in the merchant district, and showed little sign of having been damaged in the battle. Fernão paused in front of the gate and checked for the presence of a flag that would indicate the owner was friendly to the Portuguese cause, but there was none. With a grin, he drew his sword and signaled his men to break down the heavy door. It did not take long; within a few short minutes he was able to step through the shattered woodworks and into the broad expanse of the compound's courtyard.

Afterwards he would admit to himself that he had been too eager to reach the main house and its plunder; he barely saw the shadow that detached itself from the inner wall of the compound and lunged at him. Only his soldier's reflexes, well-honed by almost a decade of fighting for his king and country, saved him. He twisted his body abruptly, shifting his weight and bringing his sword up and around, but he could not evade the wild-eyed Asiatic man's dagger strike completely. He felt a sharp pain in his left arm, followed by the unnervingly warm sensation of blood soaking through his shirt sleeve.

“Heathen dog!” he spat angrily. The angle was wrong for a stabbing strike, but he brought the hilt of his sword down into his attacker's face with all the force he could master. He heard a satisfying crunch and a grunt of pain, and then his men were around him, one of them pulling him to safety while another one buried his cutlass into the native assassin's chest. The man convulsed once and then was still.

The blood was still pounding in Fernão's ears as his master-of-arms, a stocky and battered soldier named Ribeiro, descended upon him, eyes full of concern and recrimination.

“You are bleeding, capitão!” he exclaimed reproachfully.

“It is nothing more than a scratch,” Fernão replied with more confidence than he felt. In truth the wound was very slight, but the sudden attack had shaken his nerve; he had faced death in His Majesty's service many times and its shadow never failed to disconcert him.

He felt Ribeiro's eyes upon him, searching and solicitous. It would not do to show weakness of spirit in front of his men, and so he pointed imperiously at the blood-stained dagger still clutched in the dead man's hand.

“Give us that weapon,” he called. A sailor prised it from the corpse's nerveless fingers and brought it to him. It was one of those infernal native devices, of an asymmetrical design and with a blade that curved back and forth like a serpent winding its way through the grass. He suppressed an involuntary shudder and forced himself to laugh.

“Take it back to the ship, Ribeiro!” he declared. “I would keep it as a reminder of how these heathens tried and failed to withstand the might of Portugal!” His men gave a ragged cheer and even Ribeiro, whom he knew to be little affected by such overt displays of bravado, was grinning as he took the dagger from him.

The looting proceeded smoothly from then on. The assailant they had dispatched at the gate appeared to be the compound's only defender. A quick sweep of the house turned out half a dozen women, children and old men whose coarse garments and browbeaten demeanor proclaimed them to be servants, abandoned by their wealthy masters when the Portuguese forces had taken the city. Fernão had the two sturdiest-looking boys sent to the beach as captives, then turned the rest out into the street to fend for themselves.

The true treasure of the house was found in two large chests that someone had hurriedly stowed behind a screen in what appeared to be the dining hall. Their locks were quickly broken and their lids thrown back to reveal everything Fernão had hoped for. Bolts of silk, precious stones, fine porcelain and fragrant perfumes lay nestled together. And the gold! Gold coins, gold ingots and gold dust all glittered before his eyes. It was treasure beyond his wildest dreams and it was his for the taking.

Fernão de Magalhães threw his head back and laughed. He was 30 years old, in the prime of health and a captain in His Majesty's navy. He had conquered a city, cheated death once again, and gained a small fortune. The world lay at his feet and, with God's good grace, nothing could hold him back.