PREVIOUSLY
[The weight of history hung on those words. Handing over military technology to a cornered sultanate meant shifting the balance of power across the entire Eurasian region. But, from the very beginning, that had been exactly my goal.
I offered a cold, calculating, and entirely mercantile smile.
"Indeed, we can do it. Our engineers can guide you in the construction of vessels, and our armories can teach you the principles of wall-shattering fire," I replied, letting silence fill the room for a moment before striking the final blow. "But you must understand that, in the Suaza Kingdom, charity is not a state policy. All knowledge has a price, and the exchange will always be for something of equal value. What is the Sultan willing to sacrifice to buy his survival?"]
One month later.
Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Eighth Month (October 1495).
Dawn City (Santiago de Cuba, Cuba), Caribá Region (FRFI).
City Port.
A month had flown by since that tense and calculating meeting with the Wátassida envoy. The geopolitical intrigues and maps of the Maghreb had been filed away in my office, replaced now by the unmistakable, harsh scent of tar, salted wood, and sweat that flooded the port of Dawn City.
The atmosphere around us was an absolute hive of life.
Sailors hauling barrels of provisions, officers shouting orders at the top of their lungs, and the deafening creak of rigging stretching under the breeze of the Dawn (Atlantic) Ocean. Before me, rocking with an intimidating majesty upon the choppy waters, awaited our expeditionary fleet.
In the center, the imposing Tequendama II, a vessel of advanced design fitted for diplomatic use, flanked like a king by its two escorts—a pair of agile and lethal Tequendama Is that would serve as both merchant ships and armed defense.
I adjusted the collar of my raw linen tunic. I was no longer the leader of the realm, the visionary monarch of a flourishing empire. My name, from this moment on and until we touched these shores again, was Sansua: a simple and efficient liaison officer from the Stone Manor, who previously worked at the port.
I cast a sideways glance at my three wives, who stood beside me on the pier. Turey, Nyia, and Umza wore simple dresses, stripped of the jewels, exotic silks, and intricate hairstyles they usually flaunted at court.
Yet, not even plebeian clothing could hide the radiant excitement illuminating their faces. They looked like three little girls about to sneak into a forbidden festival.
The idea for this undercover journey had been born scarcely a week ago.
When I announced that I would set sail for London to personally fetch little Margaret, intending to protect her on her voyage and ensure she didn't get a dreadful first impression of our kingdom, all three immediately assumed I would leave them behind. Their faces had darkened then.
But when I added, quite naturally, that they would come with me to receive her, the entire hall erupted in shouts of joy. That effervescent happiness hadn't faded; in fact, the element of espionage and anonymity had only fueled their adrenaline.
My decision to travel incognito wasn't a childish game, but pure, well-founded paranoia.
In my previous life, I had consumed enough historical intrigue movies and books to know the dramatic twists all too well. A monarch entering the domain of another king openly and inadvertently—especially one as astute and calculating as Henry VII of England—was a perfect recipe for disaster.
An express kidnapping? Technological extortion? A diplomatic "accident"?
No, thank you. I wasn't about to become the unfortunate protagonist of an Elizabethan tragedy. To the English, and to most of this crew, we were merely specialized servants.
"Remember your roles," I whispered, leaning in close as we walked up the wooden gangplank to board the Tequendama II. "Umza and I are the official translators. Turey, Nyia, you are the ladies-in-waiting assigned to the princess's well-being. No majesties, no bowing among ourselves."
"We know, Sansua," Umza replied, emphasizing my fake name with a mischievous smile that boded ill. "Don't worry, we'll be the most docile servants you've ever seen."
As we stepped onto the main deck, the ship's swaying welcomed us. My wives began looking around with insatiable curiosity, discreetly pointing at the tall masts, the furled sails, and the massive cannons hidden beneath the tarpaulins. They were fascinated.
Carried by years of inertia and the absolute habit of being at the top of the food chain in our kingdom, the four of us began walking with a firm, natural stride toward the ship's stern, instinctively heading for the carved oak doors of the main cabin—the most luxurious and spacious quarters, which were always reserved for us.
We were barely three steps away from the bronze latches when a pair of spears abruptly crossed before us, blocking our path.
"Halt right there!" barked one of the royal guards, whose stern face showed he had absolutely no idea who he was pointing his weapon at.
Before I could intervene, the deck officer—a burly man with a salt-weathered face—strode over, frowning, a ledger in hand.
"Where do you think you're going?" the officer demanded, looking us up and down with evident disdain for our plain clothes. "This cabin is strictly restricted. It is for the exclusive use of the high-ranking diplomatic corps and English royalty. Not for common staff."
Umza tensed at my side. Her back immediately straightened, and I saw her eyes darken with that dangerous spark that usually preceded a storm. She opened her mouth, drawing a breath, ready to unleash a monumental reprimand upon the officer that would not only shatter our cover but likely end with the man on his knees begging for mercy.
"You don't know who..." Umza began, indignant at the audacity.
"Who we're talking to, of course, Sir Officer!" I abruptly interrupted her, raising my voice in an exaggeratedly servile and apologetic tone. "A thousand pardons, my lord. We are the liaison and welfare staff sent by the Stone Manor to attend to the foreign princess. The seasickness from boarding has completely disoriented us."
The officer snorted, rolling his eyes.
"Then find your orientation on the lower deck. Your assigned section is in the hammock area, next to the quartermaster's petty officers. And I had better not catch you loitering around the stern without authorization again."
Umza clenched her fists, her face beginning to turn a shade of red born of pure offense. Without a second's hesitation, I raised my hand and delivered a light, yet resounding, flick with my index and middle fingers right in the center of her forehead.
Smack!
"Ouch!" Umza complained, bringing both hands to her forehead, looking at me with a mixture of surprise and betrayal.
Turey and Nyia simultaneously covered their mouths, stifling nervous giggles at the comical and surreal nature of the situation.
"Come, dear wife, let's go find our hammocks before we cause any more trouble," I told her, flashing a tense smile fraught with warning.
I gave a quick bow to the officer, who dismissed us with a wave of disdain, and wrapping a firm arm around the hyperactive Umza's waist, I dragged my three "plebeian" wives toward the dark, narrow stairs descending into the bowels of the ship.
The descent down the narrow, creaking wooden stairs was an exercise in contortionism and humility. As the sunlight faded behind us, replaced by the dim glow of oil lamps swaying to the rhythm of the sea, my eyes scrutinized every detail around us.
Despite our undercover identity, my ruler's mind did not rest.
I observed the arrangement of the powder kegs, the sailors' patrols, and the sturdiness of the bulkheads. From what I could see, and following the tense exchange with the deck officer, everything was in perfect order. The kingdom's security and naval protocols were being followed to the letter. No one, not even me, was above the rules of the ship.
Beside me, however, the mood was far less analytical. Umza dragged her feet down the steps, her arms crossed and a monumental pout painted on her face, grumbling unintelligible words in Pijao.
Nyia and Turey hurried to flank her, offering pats on the back in an attempt to soothe her wounded pride.
"Calm down, sister," Nyia whispered in her soft voice. "Remember, you were the one begging the most to come on this trip."
"Besides, it's just a game of dress-up," Turey added, smiling dreamily. "Think of it as an adventure."
Umza nodded, letting out a sigh of resignation, but the moment her feet touched the lower deck, she spun on her heels. Her dark eyes locked onto me, oozing an almost comical indignation.
"Why did you hit me, Chuta?" she snapped viciously, rubbing the exact spot on her forehead where my fingers had struck. "It hurt!"
I stopped in front of her, letting the faint smile on my face fade to make way for a completely serious expression.
"It was just a tap to wake you up, Umza," I replied, lowering my voice so our words wouldn't float down the corridor. "And I did it because you were half a second away from giving us away completely."
I took a step closer, looking her straight in the eyes. The flickering light from the lanterns cast dramatic shadows across her face.
"It seems power and comfort have gone to your head a little," I continued, in a firm, measured tone. "The way you were about to chew out that guard, using your superior position to crush a man who was only doing his job, is in absolute dissonance with everything we represent. It goes against what I myself practice and the rules of the gods broadcast in the squares and temples. We are not untouchable tyrants, Umza. We cannot demand obedience blinded by arrogance."
The words fell with the weight of lead.
Umza blinked, and I watched the fury in her eyes crumble, replaced by recognition and guilt. She realized, all at once, that fervor and excitement had pushed her to the brink of a tantrum worthy of the European royalty we so heavily criticized. She opened her mouth to apologize, her shoulders slumping.
"I... I'm sorry, I didn't..." she began to stammer.
I raised a hand, interrupting her gently.
"I know you didn't do it on purpose. The thrill of the moment got the better of you," I told her, my gaze softening. "But I want you to think deeply about that mistake. Power is a subtle poison; we must always be vigilant so as not to drink it by accident."
Umza nodded silently, absorbing the lesson. In that instant, the shouts from the main deck turned frantic, followed by the dull roar of heavy chains.
We were setting sail!
We continued our way down the narrow corridors until we reached our assigned section. Behind a coarse canvas curtain hung three intertwined hammocks, intended for them. A couple of meters away, isolated and devoid of any sort of "affection" or privacy, hung a solitary, rigid hemp hammock that clearly belonged to me.
Seeing our accommodations, Umza's melancholy evaporated. Returning to her characteristically unbreakable spirit, she let out a crystalline laugh, lunged at Turey, and hugged her tightly.
"Oh, look at this!" she exclaimed. "It's going to be just like the old days! This trip is going to be so much fun!"
I raised an eyebrow and offered a heavily ironic smile as I patted the rough fabric of my bed.
"I sincerely hope you say the exact same thing when we are in the middle of the untamed Dawn Ocean."
Three weeks later.
The ship's swaying was no longer a novelty; it was a constant torture. We had completed almost eighty percent of our journey and, according to the navigators' calculations, we were a couple of days away from approaching the British shores.
In the bowels of the lower deck, the air was saturated with humidity, salt, and the smell of confined bodies.
"Uuugh..." a prolonged, pitiful groan broke the monotonous creaking of the wood.
Lying in my rigid hammock, I turned my head. Umza hung half out of hers, her hair disheveled and her expression one of pure misery. She was done. The romance of maritime adventure had died in her heart around the second week of seasickness.
"Chuta..." she pleaded in a desperate whisper, extending a languid hand toward me. "By the gods, let's reveal who we are. Tell them you are the Leader. Tell them you surrender. I just want to sleep one night... a single night... in the feather beds of the main cabin. I can't take this rocking anymore."
I looked at her with genuine affection but shook my head, staying in character.
"It's impossible, my dear 'translator'. No matter how much you cry and beg, Sansua does not have the authority to expropriate the diplomatic cabins. You'll have to endure."
Before Umza could reply, a hoarse, grumpy voice echoed from the darkness, a couple of hammocks down. It was a veteran sailor trying to sleep through his off-shift, who had absolutely no idea what royalty our eccentric comrade was babbling about.
"For the love of the seas, woman, shut up once and for all!" the sailor yelled at her. "You've been complaining for almost two weeks about the hammocks, the boredom, and the food! If you didn't like the sea, you should have stayed on dry land knitting!"
I couldn't hold back a smile, covering my mouth with the back of my hand.
Umza, as if fire had been injected into her veins, instantly forgot her seasickness, sat bolt upright in her hammock, and turned toward the darkness, ready to ignite a heated, noisy argument with the unfortunate sailor.
My wife's vitality was ocean-proof, especially when it came to arguing.
A week and a half later.
Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Ninth Month (November 1495).
London, Kingdom of England.
Aboard the Tequendama II, River Thames
The air changed drastically. The warm Atlantic breeze was replaced by a frigid wind that cut through the skin, heavy with a strange odor: a mix of burning coal, silt, and stagnant dampness. After almost a month of uninterrupted travel, the Suaza ships were finally sailing up the Thames estuary, approaching the port of London.
The deck officer, in a rare gesture of indulgence, had allowed both the off-duty crew and the "minor envoys" to come up to the gunwale to witness the arrival. The four of us bundled up in heavy wool cloaks and leaned against the railing.
In the distance, shrouded in a perpetual fog, rose the city of London. The Tower of London loomed like a menacing monolith, and hundreds of wooden and thatched roofs clustered chaotically along the riverbanks.
Umza was slack-jawed, marveling at the bizarre architecture and the incessant bustle of small barges swarming the water. Everything was new to her eyes. A beside her, Turey observed the city with an almost philosophical detachment, her dreamy gaze seeming to search for something beyond the stone walls and pointed roofs.
Nyia, shivering slightly from the cold, stepped closer to me and clung tightly to my arm. Her bright eyes scanned the thick layer of gray smoke hovering over the rooftops and the dark waters of the river.
"It's a spectacular place because of how different it is..." Nyia murmured, wrinkling her nose slightly, "but... it looks so gloomy and dirty, Chuta."
I stroked her gloved hand, silently agreeing with her. Compared to the clean avenues, white squares, and efficient organization of Dawn City or Central City, 15th-century London was a dark, chaotic labyrinth. However, our aesthetic disdain was soon transformed into a much more terrestrial frustration.
What happened next left us utterly dumbfounded.
Carried by the inertia of our usual rank, we took for granted that the moment the anchor touched the bed of the Thames, we would walk down the gangplank to stretch our legs and step onto dry land. But the reality of European protocol smacked us in the face.
The commanding officer of the Suaza guard designated for the princess's escort stood before us with an unyielding order: as "official envoys" and welfare staff attached to the retinue, our duty was to remain confined to the ship, guarding the facilities prepared for royalty, until just a few days before little Margaret's birthday.
We had, ironically, become prisoners of our own cover.
Umza and Nyia turned slowly toward me. They didn't need to utter a single word; their sharp glares were a poem shouting: «Looks like the great visionary didn't plan this little detail very well, did he?»
I maintained my composure, coughing lightly and diverting my gaze to the masts. For once, the impeccable strategist who had designed an empire had forgotten the bureaucracy of commoners.
A few meters away, completely oblivious to the tension and the confinement, Turey had already found her own form of entertainment. Leaning on the railing, she held out crumbs of stale bread to a pair of gray seagulls and an exceptionally bold raven that had begun to swarm the deck, interacting with them with that characteristic reverie that disconnected her from the human world.
The days that followed melted into a gray, damp monotony. The London fog seemed to seep between the planks of our floating prison, chilling us to the bone.
Umza paced the lower deck like a caged feline, complaining bitterly—morning, noon, and night—about the injustice of crossing an entire ocean only to stare at a fascinating city through a porthole. Nyia and I waited with stoic patience, playing cards or reviewing mental reports, while the city coughed and smoked in the distance.
It wasn't until the frigid morning of November 15th that we were finally granted permission to disembark. The objective was for the advance party to acclimate to the intricate customs and schedules of the English court before the official ceremony.
As soon as the wooden gangplank connected the ship to the stone pier, Umza shot off like a bullet. Her eyes gleamed at the sight of a nearby commercial street, crowded with faded awnings and shouting merchants.
She took three quick strides, ready to lose herself in the crowd, but the shaft of a Suaza guard's spear abruptly crossed her path, blocking her like a tollgate.
Umza drew a breath, clenching her fists. Her face flushed, and her mouth opened to unleash a scathing retort. Before she could make a sound, I locked eyes with her. Just that. A cold, heavy stare, utterly devoid of any marital indulgence.
She swallowed hard, closed her mouth, and slumped her shoulders, giving up instantly. Yet, even though her body obeyed, her dark eyes darted back and forth, silently begging for the freedom to explore every forbidden corner.
We began to march in formation behind the envoys from Whitehall, delving into the arteries of London's heart. If the port had seemed dismal, the city's interior was a total assault on the senses.
We watched heavy wooden and iron carriages stumble down the cobblestone streets, splashing thick mud in their wake. But what truly shook us was the overwhelming omnipresence of the filth.
The stench was thick, a palpable mixture of rancid sweat, burning coal, and something far viler. While in Dawn City the underground sewage system was a masterpiece of sanitary engineering, here the muck ran freely.
I paused for half a second when I saw a pair of men hunched at the mouth of a narrow alley, relieving themselves in plain view of passersby, while a dark, pestilent liquid trickled toward the center of the street.
Nyia covered her nose and mouth with the edge of her thick wool cloak, looking at me in horror. She squeezed my arm with a force that betrayed her repulsion. The highly touted Old World, cradle of the kings who sought to rule the earth, was rotting in its own mire.
After navigating several streets and dodging the contents of a few buckets emptied from upper windows, our English guides directed us toward a clearer sector. We stopped in front of a three-story building designated as the provisional Suaza embassy in England.
Unlike the ostentatious mansions of the local nobility, this building was sturdy, spacious, and of sober lines. The most notable feature, and the one that elicited a collective sigh of relief from my wives, was that the stretch of street in front of the house was meticulously swept and clean, free of the rot that choked the rest of the city.
We climbed the stone steps to the entrance, and one of the guards knocked on the thick oak door. It swung open with a heavy creak.
There, standing on the threshold, with the firm and solemn bearing befitting the official liaison designated to receive Princess Margaret, stood Chewa.
I looked up to face him. I wore my coarse garments of a diplomatic servant and a crude black leather patch crossing my face to hide my unmistakable left eye. My entire appearance screamed that I was nothing more than Sansua, a humble, run-of-the-mill translator.
Chewa swept his professional gaze over us, evaluating the newly arrived group. But then, his eyes locked onto my face. The patch and peasant clothes weren't enough to fool a man who had forged his loyalty in the very roots of our empire.
Chewa's posture grew as taut as a bowstring. I watched his breath catch, his jaw slacken, and a flash of absolute dread and reverence flood his expression as he recognized, with zero margin for error, the leader of the realm standing on his doorstep.
His lips began to part to utter the titles that belonged to me. In a fraction of a second, before the sound could be born in his throat, I raised my hand and pressed my index finger to my lips, meeting his gaze with a ruthless warning.
Chewa snapped his mouth shut, swallowing his words dryly into the frigid silence of London.
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Thank you all for your support. Let's get straight to the chapter comments.
CHAPTER COMMENTS
First, I want to remind you that I have an image of Margaret, but I'll leave it in the comments of the next chapter, because when this one is published, I'll be working.
Second, I'm thinking about something quite drastic.
It turns out I've realized that the world is getting so 'big,' and so many things are connecting at the same time, that I've realized interesting plots can't happen immediately.
For example, the obvious confrontation between some European kingdoms and the Kingdom of Suaza will happen, but not very soon. There will also be colonial races on other continents, as I mentioned in the author's note of the last chapter. There will be major maritime battles, pirate and privateer plots. There will also be internal changes on the continent with these guided colonizations.
There are a lot of things.
And what's the problem, you might ask?
The problem is that unless Chuta becomes an active participant, he'll just be a simple 'King' giving orders.
What I do know is that Chuta, instead of taking refuge in Central City, decided to build Dawn City to be in charge. So it wouldn't be surprising if he decided to participate in everything. Hahaha.
Now, there's something good about this. Before, I had no idea how to diminish Chuta's prominence, and now he can unintentionally become an important character, but not the main one. Well, that's obviously in the future.
---
Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 91) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 34) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 14) (ON HOLD)
You can find them on my profile.]