Sea Robber

NINETEEN

‘CONGRATULATIONS. I hear that you persuaded the Sugala to settle their differences with the Sultan,’ said Musallam Iskandar. The Malaccan trader was in the front rank of the excited crowd clustered on the landing stage to greet the expedition’s return to Pehko’s muddy creek. A few yards away a squad of jubilant citizens was manhandling the brass cannon ashore from its raft, and the two smaller lantaka had already been carried off by teams of porters.

‘Have you heard anything about a foreign woman living in the palace?’ replied Hector impatiently. He hadn’t expected to see Maria among the welcoming crowd, but he scanned the faces of those on the jetty nevertheless.

The Malaccan looked at him sharply. ‘The woman you mentioned before? There’s a rumour about a foreign woman in the Sultan’s household, but I don’t know any details. The bazaar gossip is all about the victory celebration the old man has promised his son. It’s due to take place tomorrow.’ His tone became more sympathetic. ‘I have received permission to set sail for home after the ceremony. There’s space for you and your companions on board, if the palace agrees.’

‘I will only leave Pehko if that woman can come with me,’ Hector told him.

The Malaccan shrugged. ‘I am not accustomed to female passengers on my ship. But if the Sultan says she may travel with you, then naturally I will follow His Majesty’s wishes.’

Hector’s elation at the victory over the Sugala had faded during the journey back to Pehko. It had been replaced by a premonition that he would face exactly the same problems he’d left behind. ‘Even if Maria is allowed to leave,’ he said, ‘I don’t know where we’d find the money to pay you for our passage.’

Musallam waved the objection aside. ‘I expect no fee. I hear the Sugala agreed that the skins from God’s Birds will be sold only through Pehko. So in future I need only come to this port to collect the harvest. That puts me in debt to you.’

The crowd was beginning to thin out. They had succeeded in getting the brass cannon up the slipway and were attaching drag ropes to the gun. Clearly they were intending to shift it up to the Kedatun sultan. Mansur had hurried off to the palace immediately after landing, just as Hector was hoping to speak with him about Maria. But the chamberlain hadn’t come back. Hector was beginning to feel that he and his companions were being discarded now their usefulness was over.

Musallam Iskandar tried to cheer him up. ‘Why don’t you and your colleagues stay aboard my vessel tonight? Tomorrow we can go together to the palace to attend the celebrations, and there maybe you will be able to speak to your woman.’

HECTOR PASSED a restless night aboard the jong and was already on deck and waiting to go ashore when a drizzly, grey dawn heralded an overcast day well suited to his sombre mood.

‘This rain is a sign the monsoon will soon be here,’ commented Musallam, wiping his pockmarked face as he joined Hector. The trader was wearing a fresh white gown and a neat black and white checked turban, which gave him a formal appearance. ‘It will bring the wind we need if we are sailing for the Straits.’

The dugout that served as the jong’s tender was already alongside. As soon as Jacques, Jezreel and Dan appeared, all five of them were paddled ashore, and together they began to climb the path leading to the palace. Around them the people of Pehko were hurrying up the hill. They were dressed in their best clothes – crisp sarongs and newly laundered shirts, head-cloths in blue and red. By comparison Hector felt he and his friends were pretty shabby in the threadbare shirts and breeches they’d been wearing for the past eighteen months.

By the time they reached the top of the hill, the rain had stopped and the sky had begun to brighten. Hector noted that the two lantaka had already been returned to their customary places in front of the palace. Between them stood the brass five-pounder, its muzzle pointing out over the town and decorated with a garland of orange flowers.

A line of the Sultan’s subjects was filing respectfully through the palace doors, which stood open to receive them. Judging by the air of suppressed excitement, invitations to visit the palace were rare.

But when their little group reached the doorway, a doorkeeper resplendent in a helmet decorated with plaques of turtle shell stopped them. He waved the Malaccan trader on through, but after a disdainful look directed the others to a side entrance. They found themselves in a cramped vestibule, where palace servants explained with sign language that the visitors could not go farther unless they changed out of their soiled garments. They were offered loose trousers of fine white cotton, long-sleeved shirts in the same material and sashes of violet silk.

‘I’m not surprised. This smells of grease and cooking,’ said Jacques, wrinkling his nose as he unbuttoned his grubby shirt and pulled on the fresh clothes. ‘How do I look now?’ He pirouetted in his new get-up. ‘I feel that I am about to go on stage in an opera.’

‘In the role of a clown,’ suggested Jezreel, as he struggled to fasten the buttons of his new shirt, which was too small for him.

Self-conscious in their new costumes, they were ushered through a door that gave directly on to the main reception hall of the palace. Hector blinked with surprise. The gloomy cavernous chamber of his earlier visit had been transformed. Great swags of yellow, pale-blue and rose-pink muslin were suspended from the bamboo poles wedged between the rafters. The shutters along the walls had been thrown open to let in light and air. Fresh matting had been laid on the boards, the wooden pillars that held up the roof were wrapped in bright-green palm fronds, and small spirals of smoke rose from incense burners, which gave off a heady, sweet perfume. A band of a dozen musicians in yellow and grey gowns played a melody on gongs, flutes and drums.

Three or four hundred people were gathered in the room. Most were men, but here and there Hector saw women demurely dressed, some with black veils, others with shawls over their heads. He looked among them hopefully, trying again to find Maria, but was disappointed. The crowd stood in a hollow square facing the Sultan’s divan at a respectful distance. The royal couch with its red velvet cushions had been raised on a low plinth covered with brocaded silk. The old man himself was nowhere to be seen, but he was obviously expected because many of the courtiers Hector remembered from his previous audience stood ranged on each side of the divan. Instead of their black pyramid caps, they were wearing towering headdresses made from the feathers of God’s Birds.

It took Hector a moment to recognize Mansur among them. The tall, thin chamberlain was standing next to the empty divan, and his headdress was a particularly magnificent arrangement of black and orange-yellow plumes. Hector was considering whether to walk across boldly and ask about Maria when the band stopped playing and there was the clash of a large gong. All the courtiers turned and faced to their left, the plumes of their headdresses bobbing and nodding in a ripple of colour. The muslin curtains had been drawn aside, and the old Sultan came hobbling through the gap. Immediately behind him stalked an attendant holding up a ceremonial parasol of yellow silk. At the old man’s right hand a courtier carried the silver betel box, and to his left another attendant held a silver spittoon. Slowly they advanced into the room while the crowd hushed. The old man wore a pure-white sarong over a pair of black trousers, a broad belt of red silk, and a tight, long-sleeved jacket of black velvet slashed with gold and a high stiff collar, which failed to hide his thin neck with its folds of wrinkled skin. On his feet were finely worked purple slippers. Instead of a feathered headdress he wore a head piece of gold filigree.

He reached his divan and lowered himself stiffly on to the cushions. The attendants placed the betel box and spittoon beside him, bowed and withdrew. The servant with the parasol took up position directly behind his master. The Sultan slowly turned his head, blinking his red-rimmed and rheumy eyes as he surveyed his subjects. He reminded Hector of one of the tortoises he’d seen so long ago on the Encantadas.

The gong sounded again, a gentler stroke, and this time it was Prince Jainalabidin who entered. The boy was dressed in the same costume as his father, but bare-headed. Behind him came an attendant bearing a smaller ceremonial parasol. The boy took his place standing on the step below his father, at his right hand.

A short pause was followed by a tapping of drums and the sound of a stringed instrument that reminded Hector of a viola. The crowd parted to allow a troupe of a dozen women and girls to glide into the open space before the Sultan. They were dressed in matching costumes – sarongs of flowered red silk and short green satin jackets fastened with buttons of shell. On their wrists and ankles they wore an array of gold bangles, and they kept short shawls of green gauze draped over their heads. With their gaze demurely on the ground before them, they performed a slow-paced sinuous dance, gyrating gracefully, moving their hands and arms, and every now and again holding a pose whenever a small gong was struck.

As he watched the show, Hector became aware of furtive movements at the rear of the crowd of onlookers. A number of shadowy figures were emerging from what must have been a hidden door at the far side of the audience hall. He took care not to look at them directly so as not to appear rude, but out of the corner of his eye he estimated some twenty women had joined the onlookers to peer between them and watch the performance.

The dance ended, the performers bowed gracefully to the Sultan and left by the way they had entered. The audience stirred in anticipation, and abruptly the drummers broke into a much faster and more energetic rhythm. Now a team of ten young men came bursting through the audience. They were barefoot and their loose trousers were gaudy with red and white stripes. Billowy white shirts were open at the chest, and their hair was tied back with narrow brow-bands. They bounded into the open space before the Sultan, and began to weave back and forth with short stuttering steps, leaning forward, arms held close and waggling their bodies from side to side. Belatedly Hector realized that they were imitating the mating dance of manuk dewata, when the music changed and the young men were ducking and twisting as they mimicked fighting with sword and dagger, performing great leaps and turns, until the music rose to a crescendo and ended with a tremendous booming crash of the gong.

‘Do you think that was the sound of our five-pounder?’ whispered Jacques beside him. A nudge from Jezreel silenced the Frenchman. The dancers had left, and the Sultan, still seated, was delivering a speech to his people. The old man’s voice was thin and reedy and Hector strained to catch the words. He did not understand the language, but it was clear that the old man was congratulating the boy on the outcome of the expedition against the Sugala. From time to time the Sultan turned proudly towards his son.

Hector kept looking towards the women he had seen at the rear of the audience. They had retreated in a group to a shadowy corner. All of them wore veils, and those he was able to see more clearly kept a fringe of the scarf drawn across their mouths to hide all but their eyes. Try as he might, Hector couldn’t tell if Maria was among them, for he was now sure they were the palace women.

He was caught off-guard when Mansur stepped from the line of courtiers and began to walk towards him. Suddenly he was aware the Sultan had stopped speaking and the audience was looking on expectantly.

‘His Majesty wishes to reward you for your help,’ said the chamberlain.

The crowd shuffled backwards, leaving Hector and his friends standing on their own, exposed.

‘Each of you will receive a gift of twenty skins of manuk dewata,’ announced Mansur.

Hector gathered his wits. ‘His Majesty is very kind. I thank him.’

Mansur had not finished. ‘He understands that you wish to return to your own people. He would prefer that you stay in Pehko, but his son has asked that you and your comrades be allowed to sail with the ship of Musallam Iskandar. Permission is granted.’

Hector swallowed. ‘I would like to ask His Majesty the Sultan that my betrothed leave with us.’

The old man squinted at Hector as the chamberlain repeated the request, and croaked out his response. He sounded petulant.

The chamberlain turned back to Hector. ‘His Majesty says that you have already been told the relationship between yourself and this woman is not recognized.’

Hector felt the anger rising within him. ‘Then tell His Majesty—’ he began recklessly.

The prince’s treble voice cut across him. The boy was saying something to his father; his words were shrill with indignation. The old man didn’t answer but, turning his head, wheezed a few words to the attendant who stood by his spittoon. The man hurried from the chamber and a short while later came back, carrying a small tray covered with a white cloth.

Mansur took the tray and brought it across to Hector.

‘At the request of his son, His Majesty the Sultan has graciously consented that you be given the opportunity to regularize your position according to our custom.’ He held out the tray.

Puzzled, Hector lifted the cloth. Underneath was a silver coin. He recognized it at once by its lumpy, uneven shape. It was a two-real piece. Every year hundreds of thousands of them were roughly punched out from sheets of bullion in New Spain or Peru. Every buccaneer dreamed of laying his hands on them. Hector wondered for a moment if it was to be a symbolic purchase price for Maria. The thought made him uncomfortable.

‘What must I do?’ he asked.

Mansur was regarding him seriously. ‘When a man wishes to marry, he sends to the woman a coin. But first he chooses which side of the coin represents their future together. If she returns the coin correctly – that is, with the proper face showing – then fortune will smile on their union and the Sultan will approve their marriage. If not, the man must wait for another day, or the woman has rejected him.’

‘But that leaves everything to chance,’ Hector blurted.

‘To chance and a woman’s intuition,’ answered the chamberlain gravely. ‘If the woman truly understands her suitor and wants to marry him, she will know which face of the coin to select. If she rejects him, she can always blame it on bad luck, and thus she causes no offence.’ He held out the tray. ‘Now you must decide your side of the coin.’

Hector picked up the coin and took a closer look. It was older than he had first supposed. One face was stamped with the shield bearing the castles and lions of Spain and had the words ‘CAROLVS : ET : IOHANA : REGES’ around the rim. He turned the coin over in his fingers. The reverse bore an image of two pillars standing on waves and the legend ‘HISPANIARVM : ET : INDIARVM’ – ‘Spain and the Indies’ – around the edge. Written across the centre between the pillars were the letters ‘PLVS VLTR’. He guessed there had been no space for the final a.

He hesitated. It seemed nonsense to have to make a choice, but he could see no other way. ‘I choose the side with the two pillars on it,’ he said.

Without a word Mansur replaced the cloth and went towards the group of veiled women. Silently, the crowd parted to allow him through.

Hector looked on. It was difficult to see exactly what was happening at the far end of the hall. He had a brief glimpse as the chamberlain delivered the tray to the group of women gathered in a tight cluster. Then the crowd pushed forward and his view was completely blocked.

Beside him Dan made an effort to distract him. ‘Wonder how that coin got all the way here?’ he said.

‘Probably sent from New Spain to Manila to pay for the China trade and then onwards,’ Hector replied, trying to conceal his concern. It occurred to him that Maria would choose the side with the shield, because it was the emblem of her country.

The chamberlain was coming back, tray in hand. He went straight to the Sultan, gave a low bow and murmured a few words and proffered the tray. The old man lifted the cloth and looked beneath it and gave a barely perceptible nod. Beside him, Prince Jainalabidin broke into a wide smile. Mansur turned back to Hector. ‘His Majesty the Sultan approves,’ he announced.

Hector’s heart leaped and he took a pace towards the palace women, until Dan’s hand on his shoulder restrained him. The old Sultan was being helped to his feet, and the spectators were waiting in respectful silence while he tottered from the audience chamber. The old man and his son finally passed from view and Hector turned back to find that Maria and her companions had vanished. The audience was at an end, and everyone was leaving the audience chamber. They streamed out through double doors that led to the rear of the palace. For as long as he dared, he waited, but still there was no sign of Maria. Soon he and his comrades were the only guests remaining in the room, and one of the palace guards appeared and insisted that they rejoin the rest of the company. As they emerged from the Kedatun sultan and out into the fresh air, the reason for the crowd’s enthusiasm was evident. Carpets had been spread on the ground and large green leaves set out as plates. On them were piled fish and shrimps, yams, sweet potatoes, bananas, coconuts, unknown vegetables. Sago was offered in every form imaginable: buns, cakes, porridge, biscuits, skewered on bamboo sticks or wrapped in leaves, fried and steamed. The crowd of the Sultan’s guests were already seated and helping themselves to the feast.

Musallam had kept a space for them. He was in great good humour. ‘I’ll be happy to purchase your bird skins from you. They’re very valuable,’ he said as Hector and his friends joined him cross-legged on the carpet.

Hector found it impossible to concentrate on the food or the bantering conversation of his companions. Only the Omoro menfolk sat down to eat. Their wives had withdrawn to a discreet distance and were standing, looking on. Occasionally one of them might come forward to help the women from the palace kitchens, who were replenishing the piles of food.

‘Hello, what’s this?’ said Jacques. He reached forward and picked up a dark-purple fruit from a pile in front of him. It was the size of an apple and had a smooth, glossy skin. He turned it over in his hand and looked enquiringly at the Malaccan.

‘Don’t eat the rind,’ advised Musallam. He beckoned to one of the servants hovering in the background, took a short knife from her and cut the fruit in half. ‘Here, try the white part in the middle,’ he said, using the point of the knife to prise out a chunk of creamy-white pulp.

Jacques popped it in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Remarkable. Sweet and sour at the same time. Somewhere between a peach and a lemon.’

‘Mangosteen,’ said Musallam. He leaned back with a contented sigh. ‘The four of you have proved the truth of an old saying that we have at home, “When the junk is wrecked, the shark gets his fill”, though in your case you wrecked your ship deliberately.’

Hector was aware that serving women were passing behind the line of guests, offering bowls of water in which to wash their hands and a towel to dry them. He wondered where and when he would be allowed to meet Maria.

‘We say “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good”,’ he remarked. The silk sash around his waist was uncomfortable. It had ridden up his waist when he sat down, and he paused to adjust it. A serving woman was at his elbow, kneeling, and had placed a bowl of water before him. Absent-mindedly he rinsed his fingers and then she handed him a small towel. As he took it, his fingers felt a small, hard object within the cloth. He shook it out and the two-real coin fell into his palm. Startled, he swung around. The serving woman was modestly dressed in Omoro style in a plain green sarong and a short overjacket, her features concealed by a long white veil. He reached out tentatively and, when the woman did not withdraw, lifted aside the veil.

Maria’s eyes regarded him, mischievously.

He lurched to his feet, his heart pounding. His mouth was dry and he felt unsteady, as if he was not in full control of his legs. The others looked up from their meal, and Jacques waved his mangosteen, the juice leaking down his chin. ‘Off you go. You have your whole future to discuss,’ he grinned.

Hector took Maria by the hand. He held on as if she would disappear again if he released his grip. By unspoken agreement they slipped away from the assembled company and, with Maria leading the way, hurried through the Kedatun sultan and out on to the portico in front of the palace. The guards ignored them as they made their way to the edge of the hill and stopped at last, looking out at the harbour. Hector could see Musallam’s jong far below.

‘I should have recognized you sooner,’ he confessed, turning towards her. ‘The costume suits you.’

‘As does yours,’ she said with a smile. He glanced down at his own white pantaloons and silk belt, and realized he was still holding the Spanish silver coin in his other hand.

‘How did you know which side to select?’ he asked.

‘At first I nearly chose the side that had the names of the rulers, Charles and Johanna. I imagined you’d have picked them because you thought them to be a couple, King and Queen, man and wife as you want us to be. Then I realized and changed my mind.’

‘Realized what?’ he asked, though he had a shrewd idea.

‘Charles and Johanna were not man and wife, but son and daughter. She was Johanna the Mad and he ruled in her name while she was still alive.’

‘So you chose the two pillars?’

She looked at him seriously. ‘For a good reason.’

For a moment Hector was at a loss. ‘You mean “Spain and the Indies” because we find ourselves in the Orient?’

She shook her head. ‘Every child in Spain knows that the two pillars are those that Hercules set up at the Straits of Gibraltar to mark the end of the world. But Charles, when he came to the throne, changed that. He took the two pillars as his emblem, and added the motto “plus ultra” – “more beyond”.’ She paused. ‘I thought there could be no better watchword for our future.’

Hector looked at her admiringly. Maria was so calm and so certain. ‘That ship down there,’ he said, ‘it sails tomorrow for Malacca. The captain has offered to take us with him.’

‘I know,’ she said simply. ‘There’s not much that escapes the ears of the harem.’

‘In Malacca we’ll be able to find someone who can marry us properly, if that’s what you want.’

‘And what happens then? Where do we go?’ Maria asked softly.

‘I don’t know,’ Hector answered truthfully.

Maria regarded him with her large dark, solemn eyes. ‘If you’re caught and identified in the Spanish territories, you’ll be arrested, tried and executed as a pirate. My testimony won’t save you a second time.’

‘I’m willing to take that risk.’

She gave a small, tender smile. ‘But I love you too much to let you.’

His heart went out to her. He gazed over the harbour. The sea beyond had turned a deep indigo-blue in the afternoon sun, and on the horizon a procession of low clouds, touched with grey, drifted southwards. He thought of the impending monsoon winds, which Musallam had promised would carry them to Malacca. ‘Somewhere out there must be a place where we can live together, where we’ll be left alone,’ he said.

Maria lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Together we can find it. When I was a child back in Andalusia, my father used to encourage me by translating the words on the coin as “ever further”. Let that be our private motto.’

Hector slipped an arm around her waist and held her closer. Already, in the back of his mind, an idea had begun to take shape. He squeezed the silver coin tightly, felt the edge bite into his palm. ‘The waves beneath the pillars represent the vastness of the ocean,’ he said. ‘It will mean another voyage and, this time, to sanctuary.’