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Interlude 2.2: The Journey
The Portuguese ship leaves the factory gracefully, on a warm spring day. It is filled mostly with silver, with a bit of gold and dry coca leaf to round out its stores. It is accompanied by a few others. No great treasure fleet, but assuming they all survive the journey, one that would be profitable. There is talk among the higher-level officers, and a factor returning home after years of service in the far west, of crossing the Pacific on a future journey. The Spanish are considering sending some to the Philippines, and with Macau the Portuguese could hook their new silver supply directly to China.
Their passenger listens intently.
They head south at a quick pace. Skirting along the shore mostly, quickly leaving the lands of the Tawantinsuyu behind them. A land filled with hard willed Mapuche who clung to the edge of existence rather than flee east. The ship does not stop here.
It plunges further south, towards the desolate islands that form the bottom of the New World. These are treacherous waters, but they are the ones the ship takes. None dare go further south, to face the unknown seas (or was it lands?) of the bottom of the world. They snake through the passages needed to go from one ocean to the next. At night when they look off the ship, they see the fire of the natives. There is less of it now. Again the officers meet with the factor, and some of the other captains come aboard. Their passenger is not invited. They discuss the possibility of establishing some sort of way station here, to ease the passage. But no one wants to risk winter here and none will stay.
As they depart, their passenger politely asks if he might see one of those fine maps the Portuguese have, so as to better understand the journey they have just taken. The sailors, who are as protective of knowledge as anything else, politely refuse his request.
The trip up the eastern coast is uneventful but tense. There is no doubting it now: the Spanish are entrenched along the Rio de la Plata along with their native allies. Being forced ashore would leave them in hostile territory. The common sailors spread a rumor: The Mapuche are cannibals. The passenger hears the name and quickly ties some knots on his rope, much to the confusion of his hosts. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief when they pass into what are nominally Portuguese waters.
The ship arrives in Salvador with little fanfare. Some coca is unloaded for sale, and some supplies for the long voyage ahead are put on board. The Passenger does not get much of a chance to explore the colonial town. He is, however, thoroughly unimpressed with the natives who live there. Another ship pulls into the harbor nearby and unloads its cargo of slaves. The Passenger has heard that some of the foreigners from Spain are black. He had not realized that the Portuguese had them as well. Another knot on the rope. Another scribble on the paper in a part Spanish, part Quechua combination.
The Atlantic Crossing is rough. Although it has taken months for the ship to round South America, it is still the Southern fall, and so the crossing is made in the middle of a Northern spring storm. Gales blow the ships back and forth, and the Passenger, who has been struggling with seasickness the entire way, mostly stays below deck. Another ship in the flotilla is badly damaged, but the ships limp their way to Lisbon.
The Passenger unloads from the ship and is presented to the royal court. The King, all of 6 years old, is very impressed. The Queen-Regent, locked in a losing battle with her brother-in-law, is less so. As the Passenger becomes the Guest, the captains and the factor pass on a warning to some minor court officials: this man is slippery, do not talk too much. The court does not listen.
In many ways, the Guest’s position is not that different from other natives brought to Europe. He is paraded about as an exotic toy, told to do native dances and to dress up in costumes that bear no resemblance to his clothes. His strange habits are tolerated, the current theory is that rope is some kind of delicacy in his homeland and he keeps sending them it to eat. But the sailors know that in Lesser Cathay men will pay well for the robes from Lisbon. He learns a great many things, sending back a map of Europe that was given as a gift by an amused Duke.
Two years in he dies of smallpox and is buried in an unmarked grave somewhere in Lisbon, uncared for by anyone, save for the loss of entertainment he provided.
His name was Qury and he was in his late twenties or early thirties. Little is known of him, only that he had a gift for languages, and that he was of low birth. Nonetheless, his abilities gained him notice, and he wound up doing mita labor for Titu Cusi in the form of translations. We do not know is he volunteered or if this was a punishment. The first Tawantinsuyu to truly “write back” reports of Europe, although his vantage point was suboptimal. He provided greater clarity on some things and revealed other truths yet unknown to the Tawantinsuyu. It is perfectly possible to overstate his importance, but not very easy.
Yet Titu Cusi, for all the knowledge gained, was not satisfied. He had sent an observer, a spy less charitably who had never had the opportunity to enter the true halls of power.
Next time however...he would send someone different.
Their passenger listens intently.
They head south at a quick pace. Skirting along the shore mostly, quickly leaving the lands of the Tawantinsuyu behind them. A land filled with hard willed Mapuche who clung to the edge of existence rather than flee east. The ship does not stop here.
It plunges further south, towards the desolate islands that form the bottom of the New World. These are treacherous waters, but they are the ones the ship takes. None dare go further south, to face the unknown seas (or was it lands?) of the bottom of the world. They snake through the passages needed to go from one ocean to the next. At night when they look off the ship, they see the fire of the natives. There is less of it now. Again the officers meet with the factor, and some of the other captains come aboard. Their passenger is not invited. They discuss the possibility of establishing some sort of way station here, to ease the passage. But no one wants to risk winter here and none will stay.
As they depart, their passenger politely asks if he might see one of those fine maps the Portuguese have, so as to better understand the journey they have just taken. The sailors, who are as protective of knowledge as anything else, politely refuse his request.
The trip up the eastern coast is uneventful but tense. There is no doubting it now: the Spanish are entrenched along the Rio de la Plata along with their native allies. Being forced ashore would leave them in hostile territory. The common sailors spread a rumor: The Mapuche are cannibals. The passenger hears the name and quickly ties some knots on his rope, much to the confusion of his hosts. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief when they pass into what are nominally Portuguese waters.
The ship arrives in Salvador with little fanfare. Some coca is unloaded for sale, and some supplies for the long voyage ahead are put on board. The Passenger does not get much of a chance to explore the colonial town. He is, however, thoroughly unimpressed with the natives who live there. Another ship pulls into the harbor nearby and unloads its cargo of slaves. The Passenger has heard that some of the foreigners from Spain are black. He had not realized that the Portuguese had them as well. Another knot on the rope. Another scribble on the paper in a part Spanish, part Quechua combination.
The Atlantic Crossing is rough. Although it has taken months for the ship to round South America, it is still the Southern fall, and so the crossing is made in the middle of a Northern spring storm. Gales blow the ships back and forth, and the Passenger, who has been struggling with seasickness the entire way, mostly stays below deck. Another ship in the flotilla is badly damaged, but the ships limp their way to Lisbon.
The Passenger unloads from the ship and is presented to the royal court. The King, all of 6 years old, is very impressed. The Queen-Regent, locked in a losing battle with her brother-in-law, is less so. As the Passenger becomes the Guest, the captains and the factor pass on a warning to some minor court officials: this man is slippery, do not talk too much. The court does not listen.
In many ways, the Guest’s position is not that different from other natives brought to Europe. He is paraded about as an exotic toy, told to do native dances and to dress up in costumes that bear no resemblance to his clothes. His strange habits are tolerated, the current theory is that rope is some kind of delicacy in his homeland and he keeps sending them it to eat. But the sailors know that in Lesser Cathay men will pay well for the robes from Lisbon. He learns a great many things, sending back a map of Europe that was given as a gift by an amused Duke.
Two years in he dies of smallpox and is buried in an unmarked grave somewhere in Lisbon, uncared for by anyone, save for the loss of entertainment he provided.
His name was Qury and he was in his late twenties or early thirties. Little is known of him, only that he had a gift for languages, and that he was of low birth. Nonetheless, his abilities gained him notice, and he wound up doing mita labor for Titu Cusi in the form of translations. We do not know is he volunteered or if this was a punishment. The first Tawantinsuyu to truly “write back” reports of Europe, although his vantage point was suboptimal. He provided greater clarity on some things and revealed other truths yet unknown to the Tawantinsuyu. It is perfectly possible to overstate his importance, but not very easy.
Yet Titu Cusi, for all the knowledge gained, was not satisfied. He had sent an observer, a spy less charitably who had never had the opportunity to enter the true halls of power.
Next time however...he would send someone different.
- King of the Uzbeks
- Word Count: 960