The
safina that pulled into the harbour of Isbili that afternoon was unlike any the crowd by the dock had seen before.
In design it was large but conventional - and yet the colourful draperies and painted designs across the upper band of its hull were unique and startling, and the people aboard were vibrantly dressed and ornately garbed, even those Sudani and Andalusi men among them. Universal in their garb was a cloth draped over the shoulders and woven in elaborate patterns and colours. The
sarape was known to some of the merchants here, but not yet in high fashion.
The most attention-grabbing of all the guests was the man who descended the ramp, a middle-aged man clearly neither Andalusi nor Berber nor Zanj in his heritage. His selection of gold and turquoise accessories meshed well with the simple but bright colours of his
sarape, underrobe and headscarf: They were patterned in elegant bands of turquoise, indigo, white and gold, calligraphic characters woven into bands across the
sarape in a font just barely recognizable as Arabic.
The glories of Al-Danin were familiar to Muhammad Mahbat,[1] Emir of the Otomi - and yet the splendor of Isbili was another thing altogether. To see it from the Ocean Sea was magnificent enough, but to gaze upon it was remarkable. A city of marble and glorious gardens, of soaring arches and domed buildings, of graceful minarets, of ships at port whose masts and sails seemed to brush the sky. Even the song of birds overhead was far different.
As his entourage gathered around him, he bowed his head and drew a breath, a smile forming behind his thin, silvering beard.
"So these are the wonders that exist here," he murmured. "Such things must be our brothers' reward for knowing God sooner than we ever did."
The cluster of attendants around him, younger men just as awed as Muhammad Mahbat himself, nodded in astounded agreement.
"Isbili is one of the jewels of the world, eminence," remarked his closest advisor - Abd-al-Malik ibn Fadl al-Qurtubi, an Andalusi, had come into Muhammad Mahbat's service years ago and been a source of spiritual and financial guidance ever since. The old man gestured towards the thickest cluster of buildings with a sweep of one arm. "There are many other places like this. When we reach Makkah, you shall see the most truly breathtaking place of all. The House of God awaits us far to the east - but for now, I know that the Caliph awaits your visit."
Muhammad Mahbat lifted his head, nodding gravely. For all that he had honoured the Caliph all his life - for all that his father, and his father before him, had bent their knee to his mere name - no Otomi ruler had ever seen him in person. Missives from the Caliph had always been sent through the agents of his Hajib.
Raising his eyes to the heavens, the Emir clasped his hands together at chest level. "Take us there," he said quietly. "Perhaps we will have the chance to give the Commander of the Faithful some token of our respect."
~
ACT IX OF MOONLIGHT IN A JAR
"A STORY TOLD IN BLACKPOWDER"
AN AGE OF NEW LANDS, NEW NATIONS AND NEW IDEAS
AS WE ENTER THE EARLY MODERN PERIOD
~
"Nice of them to put that up," muttered Anders Thordssen as he scowled at the taunting shape of the structure jutting up from the cape.
The tall stone navigational beacon was clearly of Moorish construction - it resembled nothing so much as one of the minaret towers from countless Moorish places of worship they'd seen in their travels down the coast of the landmass called Sudana. Beacons the size of this one were rather less common, but the Cape of Storms was a key point in the journey around Sudana - that place where Moorish sailors were supposed to swing east.
In a way, the towering navigation marker was handy for Anders and his crew. But he still curled his lips with irritation behind his thick blonde beard as he joined the rest of his crew in adjusting the sails. It was yet another reminder that he wasn't the first to these lands - that someone had beaten him to sailing to the mythical land of Hindustan, as had been theorized.
At least no one back home in Denmark had done it. The risks were said to be great - but Anders Thordssen had little to lose and much to gain.
The Danish ship slashed through the waters of the southern ocean, the wind booming in her lateen sails. In most respects she was a typical modern ship of her day - a sleek, fast
jaevner, built not with overlapping planks like the olden days but with flush hull beams like the vessels of the Moors and the Iberians.[2] A few of the shields traditionally hung over the side had fallen off during the long journey around Sudana, but most of them remained in place, there in case Thordssen and crew needed them - which they had a couple of times, when they'd landed on untamed coastlines to water and resupply only to be met by hostile locals.
The days after the rounding of the Cape of Storms were, fortunately, less perilous for Thordssen and his men. The
jaevner was unaccosted as it sailed on through sunrise and sunset, through sunlit seas hot enough that the men worked shirtless much of the time and yet still sweat as if they'd been thrown into a Hell of daylight and endless water.
Yet they soon found places they'd never known before. Days later, the
jaevner sailed into a harbour that left the men raising their eyebrows.
"If the map's right, this should be, uh, Kilwa," one of the crewmen remarked before looking up to join the rest of them in marveling at the sight of the place. They'd never even conceived that the city could be this - a large port with sprawling structures, bustling with ships and packed with colourfully-clad merchantmen, most of them black-skinned and trading in goods they'd seen only from a distance. Luxury items and gold changed hands with shocking regularity.
Standing at the bow of the
jaevner, Anders Thordssen resisted the urge to let his mouth hang open with a mixture of awe and avarice. "So much wealth is changing hands here. It's astounding."
And even though the Moors have known about this for generations, I may be the first Danish man to get here, he reflected with a certain glee.
They won't know what
to think when we return home with a hold full of even a small amount of this stuff!
~
Shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand to his forehead, Ramon de Seta surveyed what of the land he could see from the top of the hill. There wasn't a lot of it - even from here, he could see ocean in all directions. The view confirmed what he'd thought: The body of water off to the northeast was no lake, but fed from the ocean by a little inlet.
Handsome scenery, to be sure, and with a lush climate - but missing one key thing.
"No people," he observed.
"None," agreed Balduino de Coruna as he moved to the crest of the hill, just to Ramon's right. The bearded man squinted down at the arcing island sweeping away to the southwest. "This island was always marked as too dangerous. The sea routes just skip by it. They prefer to sail further to the south."
"And they never bothered to build anything here?" Ramon set his hands at his hips, the wind tugging at his auburn hair as he tilted his head towards the navigator he'd brought with him. The man had come out of Iberia one step ahead of the Moors, claiming to have been a trader and selling his knowledge of seas and trade routes in ports along the Provencal coast. Most had thought him a charlatan, until the Duke of Tolosa had taken pity on him and paid for a saquia and a crew.
Ramon hadn't trusted him either - and yet, here they were.
The Santiagonian shrugged slowly. "There are a lot of Moors in the New World. Most of them do not bother with places like this. They say there are rich kingdoms further to the south, peopled entirely by Mohammedans. The places further north, I am less sure of. They don't like to go further north."
"Why not?"
"Have you ever seen a Moor in the snow?" Balduino smirked. "It gets cold once you get further north here. They don't like the cold."[3]
Pacing the hill, Ramon nodded and moved around towards the southwest side to once again squint down what seemed to be the length of the island. "Nevertheless, I can see this place being pretty useful, Balduino. If there is something worth going west from here for, anyway. And if we can somehow justify getting through those damn reefs."
"Yes, that's the other reason the Moors don't use this place much." Balduino grimaced and scratched at his shoulder. "From what I'd heard, one of their ships ripped its bottom out on those reefs a few years back. I don't know if the wreck's still there. Probably broken up by now."
Ramon lowered his eyelids irritably. "Thank you for telling me."
"No charge," the Santiagonian deadpanned.
The irritation bubbled up for a moment, but Ramon breathed it out through his teeth in a short sigh. "Nevertheless," he said as he stooped to pick up the object he brought with him.
A tall pole with a red banner flying from it - one blazoned with golden stripes and a flaring cross. With some effort and the help of Balduino and a couple of his crew, Ramon drove the flag into the turf and let it stand there, the wind soon capturing it to blow the banner of the Kingdom of Romania out to its full glory.[4]
In spite of himself, he smiled. The King would certainly reward them greatly for this - and perhaps even pay out more for another trip.
[1] The appellation "mahbat" is an Arabization of an Otomi word meaning "the servant."
[2] The jaevner - More properly, the jævner (Swedish: jämnar, Icelandic: jafnarr, slang for "even-planked knarr") - is basically the Danish/Scandinavian equivalent to the Andalusian saqin and its derivative, the Anglish skene (and the Santiagonian saquia). There are differences: The jaevner is carvel-buil, but it has a bit more Viking lineage and in some ways looks a little like someone tacked a caravel sail and stern structure onto a knarr, complete with shields hanging off the sides of the ship. It's actually an independent design intended to sail the North Sea, but it's just as good in the tropical Atlantic.
[3] The people of Al-Barshil beg to differ, Balduino. Quit stereotyping.
[4] Occitan Bermuda.
SUMMARY:
1483: Muhammad Mahbat, Emir of the Otomi, conducts his famous hajj. He takes the Mediterranean route, stopping off at ports along the North African coast and evoking wonder and curiosity along the way.
1483: The Danish explorer Anders Thordssen successfully rounds the Cape of Storms and reaches Kilwa.
1483: The Romanian explorer Ramon de Seta, guided by the Santiagonian exile Balduino of Coruna, discovers the islands of Setania.
