by Clint Dohmen
Jasper thought this Simon Lang sounded like the interesting sort. Perhaps if he returns he may be helpful in gaining this region’s support. Jasper put two gold coins on the table and slid one to Maureen. “Thank you for the information, and thank you for your husband’s sacrifice.” Then he slid one to Maurice. “Thank you for your service to the red rose.”
Chapter 19
Off the Ryukyu Islands,
South of Kyushu, Japan, East of China
THE HULL OF the Tigre cut cleanly through the aquamarine sea. Barracuda, box jellyfish, manta rays, moray eels, hammerhead sharks, and a plethora of colorful fish swam amongst the coral on both sides of the ship.
Simon should have been calm, but he wasn’t. He stared at the craggy-faced foreigner steering the carrack through the coral reefs. It was Simon’s job to steer the ship, and he didn’t trust the old man who was covered from arsehole to earlobe in brightly colored tattoos. But Lord Arai had told them that this pirate could be trusted to get them to the capital of the Ryukyu Islands, and Simon trusted Lord Arai’s advice. Nonetheless, he did not like the thought of a pirate steering his ship, so he kept both eyes focused on the old man.
The old man for his part was nervous as well. Aside from the fact that he was piloting a ship the size and shape of which he’d never seen before, there was a large, pale white devil that kept staring at him and a laconic samurai never far away, whom he suspected would like nothing better than to cut his head off.
Kojiro stood relaxed but alert with his hand poised close to the hilt of his sword. He would cut the pirate in half at the first sign of treachery, or maybe even without it. The pilot was a Wako: a sea bandit, and Kojiro did not like bandits. The notorious Wako terrorized the coastal fishing villages of Japan, China, Korea, and Southeast Asia: killing, kidnapping, plundering, and pillaging.
Recently, the sea bandits had begun traveling further afield, raiding more deeply into China, which had proven lucrative. However, due to these forays, their original coastal bases in the outlying Japanese islands had become too distant. The Ryukyu Islands had proven to be the perfect waypoint for their pirating depredations.
The Ryukyus were midway between Japan and the coastline of southeast China, with dangerous reefs to discourage unfamiliar sailors. Additionally, the Ryukyu Kingdom offered established trade markets where the pirates could sell their wares. A shady arrangement between the Wakos and the king of the Ryukyu Islands had been struck: the king turned a blind eye to the Wako piracy and gave them a safe haven to rest and trade. They, in return, did not attack any of the treasure-laden Ryukyu trading ships.
These men have no honor, Kojiro thought. They fight for nothing more than treasure and sell out to the highest bidder. But Lord Arai uses this man to sell his wares to the Ryukyu Kingdom, so I will not kill him today.
“This man, so he is a pirate?” Simon double-checked if he had heard right.
Aldo answered. “Kojiro called him a Wako, which he described as a sort of a sea bandit, which I feel comfortable translating as ‘pirate.’ Something like the Moor pirates that infest the Mediterranean Sea, I should imagine. They sail around the coast of Asia and raid for whatever there is of value. They will also take the pretty girls and strong boys. I imagine it could also be strong girls and pretty boys for that matter. The strong ones are sold for farm labor, and well, you can imagine what the pretty ones are sold for. The slave trade seems to be just as lucrative here as it is everywhere else in the world.”
Aldo looked at Simon; he thought of a relevant religious fact that this would be an opportune time to introduce. Aldo knew Simon would do well to learn more religious facts and saw it as his God-given duty to present them, bidden or not. “Do you know that the beloved Saint Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, isn’t actually Irish?”
“Huh,” Simon said, not caring what Aldo was on about.
“He was a slave. When he was sixteen, he was captured by Irish raiders and taken to Ireland from northern England.”
Now this was actually a bit of information Simon thought he could use for future entertainment. I will inform the Irish at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in London, on their St. Patrick’s Day, that the famous patron saint of Ireland is actually English. Simon thought about it and grinned widely. That should start some fun. In answer to Aldo, though, he just grunted. Mustn’t encourage him to share any other religious information with me.
Simon’s thoughts drifted back to the marauder at the helm. “The Wako sound a bit like the Norsemen.”
“Oh, the Vikings, you mean,” Aldo replied. “Fortunately, they never raided as far as Venice, but I’ve traded with Norsemen. They do seem to be a bit unpleasant.”
“They’re actually a bit more than unpleasant. They plundered my hometown of Exeter on numerous occasions, the bastards. In 1003, they razed our only church. The Vikings seem to have been particularly fond of raiding churches and monasteries. I’ll give them this; it must be hard to resist all that money that the Church leaches from the people.” Simon smiled, anticipating the effect his last comment would have on Aldo.
Aldo did not take the bait. “Pagans” was all he replied.
A bit disappointed at Aldo’s muted reaction, Simon tried again. “But I suppose burning the church was a good thing.”
This time he got a reaction. Aldo shot Simon a look that would have killed a lesser man and said, “I know that you are not an especially devout follower of our Lord, but to commend the destruction of a church is beyond blasphemy.”
“Upon the grounds of the razed church, Exeter Cathedral was built, which is one of the finest churches in the world. That’s what I was going to say if you had let me continue.”
Aldo’s eyes narrowed. “Well, yes, of course. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
Simon thought it time to change the subject. He’d had enough religious discussion for the day, perhaps even for the year. “So what is this mysterious harbor we are sailing to?”
“According to Lord Arai, it is called Naha,” Aldo answered, “and by the looks of it, we are about to arrive.”
In the distance, Simon saw what looked to be a colossal, winding, stone-walled fortification on a hill above a harbor. As they got closer, he could see more detail in the grand castle that dominated the landscape around it. It was a commanding structure, protected naturally by the island’s hills as well its own multilayered fortifications. I would not want to try to take that by force, he thought.
Speaking in a strange dialect of Japanese that required Kojiro’s translation, the pirate said, “That is Shuri-jo Castle. The King of Ryukyu lives there.”
The Wako pirate said nothing else as he steered the Tigre skillfully into the bustling port. Simon marveled at the vast array of sea vessels moored in the harbor; flat-bottomed Chinese junks with brightly colored flags, Javanese sailing vessels, Arab dhows, and a multitude of other seafaring craft.
The Wako looked anxiously at the foreboding samurai as the ship’s dinghy was lowered into the water. He knew that as a general rule, samurai killed bandits on sight, and this one’s disposition throughout the voyage had not been encouraging. When the samurai approached him, he hoped he would still have a head left to bury into a nice pair of breasts this evening.
“Ike!” was all the samurai said to him. A bit rude and abrupt to be told just ‘go’ after bringing them safely here, but he was not going to dwell on the insult. He scrambled down the ladder to the dinghy.
“Shall we?” Aldo asked.
“Indeed we shall,” Simon replied coolly.
In fact, Simon was quite excited about visiting this exotic port. Once ashore, Simon was struck by the variety of people: bearded Arabs wearing white turbans and flowing white thobes; Chinese in brightly colored, elegant silk hanfu; Indians wearing knee-length cotton shirts; Javanese wearing colorful sarongs; and a host of other nationalities all jostling to trade. Although he and Aldo were the only white people in the market, they were not so dissimilar from lighter skinned Arabs, so they d
id not attract an undue amount of attention.
The smell coming from the market had Aldo enchanted from the minute they stepped off the dinghy, and he headed towards it while Simon and Kojiro decided to look for something resembling a drinking establishment. Aldo soon discovered the enticing smells were a combination of frankincense, myrrh, nutmeg, ginger, cloves, and cinnamon. In addition to the spices, the market appeared to hold everything imaginable for sale; ivory, gold, gems, animal skins, silks, silver, slaves, weapons, lacquerware, glass, and thousands of other assorted items. Because it was a port city, Aldo had expected a market but not this big, not this wonderful. He stood and smiled. There is money to be made here.
When Simon returned to the dinghy a few hours after the sun sank, he was feeling quite refreshed. He and Kojiro had managed to sample alcohol from at least six different countries, and he had liked everything but the Chinese sake. To his mind, that had tasted like beef stock. When he arrived back at the dock, he was surprised to see that half the Ouchi booty and many of their original Venetian wares were being carted off by people he had learned were called Javanese.
Aldo walked down the dock and greeted Simon with a smile that was wider than usual. “My friend, I have made an excellent trade,” he said, fishing through the top pocket of his shirt. Then, with a grand flourish, he pulled out an egg-shaped seed about three centimeters in length.
“Do you know what this is?” Aldo asked beaming.
“A rat penis?” Simon replied, worried where this was heading.
“Nutmeg, my friend.” Aldo seemed delirious with delight. “Some people believe it wards off the plague, and others are convinced that it causes self-abortions, all of which is, of course, total nonsense, but people will pay outrageous prices for this back in Europe. Nutmeg means money. We, my friend, are rich.”
Simon perked up a bit. He liked the sound of ‘rich,’ particularly when it was attached to the pronouns ‘we,’ ‘me,’ and ‘I.’ “So, how many barrels or boxes of these nutmegs did we get?”
“Just this one.”
Aldo still looked pleased in spite of that revelation. Simon carefully inspected the seed. “That must be one hell of a good nutmeg.”
Aldo tapped the side of his nose. “I have the directions to an island of spices; full of cloves and nutmeg. I paid for the directions, not the ‘rat penis.’”
Simon looked forlornly at the woodblock paintings from Kyoto being offloaded at the dock. He had wanted to return to England with at least a few of them, but Aldo was a Venetian and Venetians knew trade. Don’t they? Maybe I found a defective one. Well, what’s done is done. “Where is the map?”
“There is no map. The exact direction was discreetly revealed to me, but the seller refused to write it down; the information is too valuable.” Aldo paused, looked around, and gently whispered into Simon’s ear, “South, my friend.”
Simon looked at Aldo as if he were a simpleton. “South is a direction, not a map.”
Aldo leaned closer, cupping his hand around Simon’s ear this time. “South; sail as straight as the crow flies. Not south-southwest and not south-southeast, just straight south. The journey may take weeks because we will be against a current that sweeps north, but we must persevere south.”
Simon turned and started walking back into Naha.
“Where are you going?” Aldo shouted.
“East. Not northeast or north-northeast, just east,” Simon said. “There’s a drinking establishment there, and if I’m lucky, perhaps a lady or two of dubious moral character. And since ‘south’ is the secret direction to our riches, I don’t need to be sober tomorrow; even Neno can steer a ship in one direction.”
Chapter 20
Anchored off the Molucca Islands
“JUST SWORDS. NO armor and definitely no shields,” Aldo said. “And Neno, you can leave your new weapon aboard. You are frightening enough without it.”
“Si, Capitano,” Neno said obediently.
Aldo was huddled with a small group of people at the stern of the Tigre. Kojiro, Simon, Neno, and four sailors were listening intently to Captain Mitacchione. “We are here to trade, and we don’t want the natives getting any wrong ideas.” He turned to the four sailors. “When we reach land, smile, look friendly, and keep your wits about you.”
Aldo narrowed his eyes and studied the four dopey and toothless faces. “Second thought, don’t smile and forget what I said about wits, just try to look friendly.”
“Si, Capitano,” they all replied.
Simon had his doubts about the ‘lightly armed’ policy, but Aldo had been right about getting here in the first place and Simon wasn’t going to second-guess him in front of the crew.
Aldo looked towards the lush, green volcanic island. “Man the dinghy.”
The Tigre was anchored only five hundred yards offshore, and the experienced sailors cut through the serene, azure waters quickly.
“Ease up,” Aldo said as the boat began to glide towards the black sandy beach.
“Si,” the sailors responded.
“Way enough,” Aldo shouted. The crew responded to his order and stopped rowing, raising the oars out of the water and straight up into the air. Standing on the beach were several darkly tanned farm workers waiting to greet the newcomers.
“They’re all smiling, that’s a good sign,” Simon said.
“They should be used to traders coming here, just as I anticipated. That is why I did not want us to come ashore fully armed and looking like a raiding party. I’m sure they’ve been following the progress of our dinghy from the treetops.”
After the crew pulled the boat up onto dry sand, Aldo observed what appeared to be a house and a barn about a mile inland. He pointed at it and then realized that he didn’t know what to say. He looked at Simon and chuckled. Obviously the islanders wouldn’t speak his heathen tongue. Then he looked at Kojiro, who shrugged his shoulders. It’s really annoying that he keeps picking up body language from Simon, Aldo thought to himself. But Aldo needn’t have worried about language. The islanders knew what to do and soon had them ambling along a hard dirt trail towards the house. Aldo ordered the four sailors to stay by the dinghy, much to their relief.
“I should have brought Kuro,” Kojiro observed. “He needs to walk around.”
“If all goes well, you can exercise him while we load our treasure,” Aldo grinned.
The weather was warm, the humidity oppressive, and an overpowering smell invaded their nostrils, not unpleasant, but overwhelming nonetheless. “Ah, the smell of cloves,” Aldo said as they sweated and trudged their way up the trail. “It is the smell of money.”
The cloves seemed to be a part of the air itself. Simon felt as though every breeze would drown him in aroma. The forty- foot-tall clove trees lined the side of the path; workers could be seen picking the bright red flower buds and placing them in baskets. The workers in the trees cast wide-eyed glances at the visitors but continued with their work. The crew of the Tigre eventually came to a low-walled, roughly cut timber house. The area in front of the house was hard, cleared red dirt, and the fragrant clove buds laid out drying on it in the sun.
Behind the house was a stable, also made from crudely hewn, unpainted logs. One of their escorting farmworkers pounded on the front door to the house, and with a last smile, he and the other islanders disappeared back down the cart trail.
The door opened, and a tall, slender Arab with a long, immaculately groomed beard emerged. He wore a loose fitting cotton tunic.
“As-salaamu alaykum,” Aldo greeted the man. He had dealt with Arab traders on many occasions, so his Arabic was passable.
“Wa alaykum salaam,” the Arab returned his greeting.
“Isme Aldo.”
“Isme Ismail ibn Umar,” the man replied. He gestured for the group to come inside.
They entered a cool, dim room, with one door on the east wall leading further into the house and another door on the north wall leading to the stable in back. Like everywhere else on the
island, the smell of cloves drowned out the smell of anything else. Ismail ibn Umar opened his hand and pointed at the reddish-colored hardwood chairs that surrounded a table in the center of the room. The smooth-topped table was made from the same beautifully colored wood as the chairs. Unlike the crudely finished logs that made up the structure of the house, the table and chairs were finely constructed, as were the other furnishings in the room.
Ismail disappeared through the east door and reemerged after a slight absence with five white porcelain cups on an ornately designed silver platter. He placed the cups in front of his guests and indicated that they should drink.
Simon didn’t know what the steaming hot blackish liquid was, but it smelled wonderful. Simon looked at Aldo, but Aldo didn’t know either. Simon looked at Kojiro who responded to his inquisitive glance with “shirimasen,” meaning he didn’t know either.
Aldo spoke with Ismail in a mixture of Italian and Arabic and announced that the liquid was called “qahwah.” After Simon had consumed two cups of the bitter, flavorful liquid he felt strangely energized. It was similar to when he drank alcohol, except his senses seemed more acute, instead of less. Simon asked for a third cup, and the man seemed happy to oblige.
“So when do we discuss business?” Simon asked Aldo, oddly feeling an urgent need to defecate.
“Patience, my ill-mannered friend, unlike the English, the Arabs like to behave with some civility towards their guests before they go straight to business.” Without giving Simon a chance to respond, Aldo turned back to Ismail and continued talking and laughing.
