A horde of armed men, howling, and limbs convulsed, charged out of the gateway at the troops who had landed. Few reached their goal; in a few minutes the river bank was strewn with bloody corpses and pig-tailed heads. Then there was silence. A mighty gong sounded within the palace. Farria knew what was coming and withdrew a little.
The gate now spewed out more and more warriors and finally, amid a host of cavalry, the mandarin appeared in a chariot, wearing many-coloured war robes and wielding a huge broadsword.
Farria gave orders for the mandarin to be spared in the charge. And in the space of a prayer it was over. Again bodies covered the ground, in the distance scattered horsemen fled and the mandarin sat in his chariot, the horses of which had been shot.
Farria approached and placed the point of his sword on his breast, but met the resistance of metal. A sombre suspicion arose in him. He ripped the robes away with his blade and encountered an obsolete breastplate.
Farria recognized it. He himself had not seen the departure of Perez, the first ambassador to Beijing. All that was known was that he had been murdered en route.
Farria ordered the Chinese to take off the sullied armour. The mandarin pointed to the circle that had formed around them and Farria, deliberately misunderstanding, motioned to four soldiers who to the sound of loud cheers made the other man crawl from his stolen carapace. Shivering, the high lieutenant stood with his naked flabby upper body exposed to the scorn of the foreign devils. Farria drove him to the river and ordered him to clean the armour from his touch, washing and scrubbing it. Then he summoned his executioner, a huge Manchu, who, his eyes bulging with delight, tortured and dispatched his distinguished victim in exemplary fashion. In addition, a new ceremony took place.
Farria raised the now gleaming breastplate aloft, and the rays of the sun gave it new lustre. He swore, “I shall build a cathedral in my new city. This armour shall be the only relic. It shall not be ousted by any saint’s bones. The cathedral will also defend the fort and city from attack and siege. The breastplate shall hang from the groined vault in the nave of the church.”
For the executioner had done his work and the body of Nanwei’s lord hung from the gate beam of his palace.
IV
FAR TO THE SOUTH, in a lonely region, although no more than two days’ journey from Canton with its millions, a small uninhabited peninsula juts into the sea. In a circle of rocks on the strip of land there stands amid the boulders a rough redwood shrine, sparingly gilded. No elegant statues or perfumed censers. In an alcove is a crude stone statue of a sea monster, whose gaping jaws snap at the peaceful face of the goddess. From the roof beams hang rough wooden junks and sampans. On the steps in front of the altar are dried fish.
It is the shrine of A Ma O, the goddess of typhoons. Only fishermen and pirates honour her.
On the furthermost tip of the peninsula there is another stone. That is all that has been built by human hands here. No one remembers which tribe gave the goddess her sanctuary and sacrificial altar. The stone actually bears the name and date of its foundation. It is a padrão, a memorial stone, like many that commemorate a first landing on the coasts of Africa and Malabar, but like no other in China. And this is not only a memorial to exploration, but a tombstone. It reads: Here landed Joaquim Ferreio with the Padre and the Tejo. AD 1527.
He had a very modest aim in mind: to dry his cargo, which had become wet from the swamping seas, in the sun. Spices and textiles were spread out on the flat dry beach, next to a few tents occupied by himself and his men, while his ships were refitted.
One morning hordes of Chinese warriors surrounded the tents. And an envoy came to demand a thousand pieces of gold for the violation of their soil, which must not be trodden on by a foreigner with big eyes and long curls. Ferreio paid and left with his still half-damp cargo and hastily readied ships. He knew perfectly well that if he stayed the following day another mandarin would demand twice as much, hence wiping out the entire profit of his disastrous voyage.
He had a padrão hastily constructed, recording his stay on this bleak coast. The Chinese left it intact, fearing the spirit inhabiting the stone.
For twelve years the rough monument stood alone on the lonely spit of land.
Then again a ship was stranded there, whose only cargo was ten or so Jesuits on a mission to Beijing. They also had damage to repair, caused by their dysentery. Three of them died there and were buried around the padrão, covered by crude tombstones.
And the place was given a wide berth.
In this way there was from an early date a spot in the forbidden kingdom that belonged to Portugal, through its dead — before Farria sailed in and landed there to found the city he wished to hold and strengthen, against the Chinese and for the Portuguese.
It seemed as if he would achieve this secret aim, since the city had an impregnable location; at the narrowest point of the peninsula a small fort and three hundred men were sufficient to keep thousands in check. From the side it was protected by groups of islands and sandbanks.
He built a few forts and warehouses — churches came of their own accord.
The ships came and went in ever growing numbers: Macao lay halfway between Malacca and Japan on a protected anchorage, whereas Lian Po had been exposed to the stormy side of the Straits of Formosa. But Farria died as he was beginning to feel in a strong position, and Macao remained, even in the times of weakness and decline, almost alone: o mais leal, loyal to the King, even when there was no longer any king or any Portugal.
Neither Pinto nor Farria took revenge. And the way in which someone else later did so is nowadays seen not as revenge but as endorsement.
CHAPTER 1
I. Lisbon, August 15…
GOD KNOWS I avoided her as far as I could, but the King doesn’t know that. It might have been better if he had. Nor does he know that it was his own fault that the unforgivable happened. She is intended for the Infante, and though I loved her, my blood did not rebel at the prospect. The Infante is, like so many kings’ sons, someone whom one can meet, even be on intimate terms with, without being changed in the least by the experience. It’s as though they are state institutions, not people. She whom I call Diana could marry him, share his throne and bed, bear his children and yet remain Diana.
And what about me? We were to experience intense passions, she was to be swept from one emotion into another, and after a few years I would no longer love her, since she would no longer be the woman I now call Diana and always shall, not only not to betray her name but also because in that case I no longer need describe her to myself, or torture myself by freeing her from my heart where she lives, interwoven with the darkest secret core of my being in a helpless attempt to bring her to life in my words, which may be able to embrace worlds and seas, but not her essence.
Let me remind myself once more what her life would have been. A retreat to the desolate estate where she slowly changed into a sluggish woman, deprived of all attraction by motherhood and daily cohabitation; I on the other hand consumed by the longing for distant lands that I could not reach, and bearing my resentment against her in silence.
But who can overcome their desire with reason? Only those in whom it is like a fleeting spring wind. In me it was as scorching and constant as the trade wind. I did fight, though.
The struggle between renunciation and desire made my voice falter, my eyes wander and my attitude dither whenever I met her. She would turn away full of anger and boredom, and the eyes of the Infante and his royal father would shine with triumph.