41

With favourable winds due to the north-west monsoon, they made steady progress from Lifau, the single masted proa with its unequal-length and parallel hulls dealing easily with the occasional squalls. Pobasso, the Macassan owner of the vessel, explained through Philip that he and his ancestors had been travelling these waters for generations, fishing for trepang or sea cucumbers off the great southern land they called ‘Marege’.

‘No need to worry, Master Bunting,’ said Philip. ‘Pobasso agrees with me that no European has ever been to this land. It is a rugged and inhospitable place and the inhabitants are warlike and cannot be trusted. The only reason the Macassan go is to fish for trepang. The Chinese will pay a pretty penny for them.’

At the mention of the Chinese, Pobasso laughed and gesticulated with crude movements of his hand near his cloth-covered genitals.

‘Ah,’ said Philip coyly, ‘he says that the Chinese believe the dried and smoked trepang help them … how do you say … get it up. He says that the Macassans don’t need any help in that area.’

Jakob looked at Bunting’s face and burst out into laughter. ‘Heinrich, your face is a study. We have similar things back in Germany.’

‘Oh, very interesting,’ said Bunting uneasily, not really wanting the conversation to continue.

For Bunting, life on the ocean was a pleasant change from the regular mass, matin and lauds in the Church of Saint Joseph. Friar Taveira’s suspicious and piercing eyes had followed his every liturgical utterance, always looking for him to slip up and reveal his heresy.

Philip had spoken to him in the milling crowd after the Sunday morning service, gathered outside the whitewashed building. ‘The answer is yes. I will organise a boat and captain. Your payment will be to take me with you back to Europe. I have a wish to see the cities and homes of these men who keep coming in greater and greater numbers to our islands.’ He smiled as if it was a normal genial conversation. ‘We cannot leave until the winds change in December, so keep saying your prayers, Master Bunting … Dominican style.’

There was plenty of company for the first few days of the voyage. Scores of proas lined the horizon. Mostly single sails but occasionally larger double-masted boats with twenty or more crew skipped past them.

‘They are all heading the same way as us to make landing on Marege,’ said Philip, pointing out to sea at the sails in the distance. ‘There they will make camp, for up to four months, while they gather the trepang before returning with their bounty. We will change direction soon and head west into the sinking sun to a land we call Kayu Jama. It is far less hospitable and only a few adventurous vessels will venture there. From there it is up to you, Master Bunting. Pobasso will do as you wish. His fee will make him the rich man in his village and he will have no need to make the journey to this land for the next few years.’

Philip spoke the truth. As they changed direction westwards, the number of other proas thinned out and by the time they started to head south, with the coastline to the east, there were no other boats in sight. Amir had made it his business to catch fish for the voyagers and had become quite expert at it. Bunting, using his recently acquired navigation expertise – learned from Martin Cortes on the Sao Cristovao – diligently recorded their speed and position using a crude cross-staff, whilst Jakob, also utilising skills from the great voyage from Europe, took it upon himself to keep the proa shipshape.

‘Who will believe our story, Heinrich?’ asked Jakob, marvelling at the vast blueness around them. ‘A priest, a Jew and a Moor boy travel the world together.’

‘It is a story without an ending as yet. Only God knows what challenges are in front of us.’

‘Well, so far Hashem has kept his eye on us.’

‘And Allah too!’ said Amir, head over the side of the proa, pulling up another struggling fish.

Jakob and Bunting gave each other a sidelong glance, both surprised to hear their young companion refer to his background for the first time.

‘I remember my father would say: “He who has drunk the sea does not choke on a brook.” I understand what it means now.’ Then quietly, almost to himself, ‘In the end, he did drink the sea.’

The older men remained silent as Amir continued in a mournful trance-like state, sometimes in the present and sometimes in the past.

‘Father, Father, let me join you on the galley. Piri, my brother, is allowed. He is only five years older than me. Let me come too and prove myself worthy of the Fehad name. Mother, dear mother, please no tears for I am a man now. I am twelve years old … Müezzinzade Ali Pasha, I beg of you, Amir is too young. Let him stay with me … Your husband, my dear old friend, has sailed with our invincible fleet since he was a boy and is now a captain of his own galley. Amir will glorify the Fehad name once again … Do not cry, dear mother. This is the greatest fleet the world has ever seen. Allah has made his will known that the Mediterranean should no longer be infested with the infidel. Father, where should I go? What should I do? Yes, if it be your wish for me to climb to the topmast, then I shall climb.’

The jumble of words and thoughts tumbled out of the boy.

‘I see them. I can see the red crosses on their sails. There are so many of them. Ships, ahoy!’

‘He must be talking of the Battle of Lepanto,’ whispered Bunting to Jakob. ‘I had no idea.’

Amir continued: ‘Do not fear, son, our bowmen will rip them to shreds before they reach us, and then they will face the Janissaries. Their cannons roar and rip through us. The drummer boy beats faster for the slaves to row harder into the fray … Screaming, screaming, the smoke, the smell … I see it all from my nest. We are rammed, a horrendous ripping sound, their bow smashes through into the chained rowers and they swarm aboard with swords and axes raised. Piri, Piri my brother. Oh dear Allah, please no! Mother, Mother, help, help my Father. We are sinking! Father looks up at me. I see from his eyes he is pleading for me to stay at the top. The Sultan, our flagship, rams the infidel boat. Who is who, I cannot tell. Allah, Allah, please take me home … I want to go home. Müezzinzade Ali Pasha, our leader is below. I recognise his turban. His blade slices and slices through. We are sinking. Father is flailing in the water. Father! Father! They laugh and push him under with their oars, the Christian slaves, the rowers now freed. I see him sink and struggle. He is gone. They have Müezzinzade Ali Pasha and hold him down on his back. He struggles, his eyes bulging as the infidel takes his knife and slowly cuts through his neck. His life blood spurts over the jeering Christians. They raise his severed head with the turban still on and a cheer echoes over the water. I am in the water. I am drinking the sea.’

Amir looked up at the men, his eyes wet.

‘I felt a yank on my head and was pulled out the water by my hair. A few weeks later I was sold to the Archbishop in the slave sale. Five years have passed.’