Tim Severin - Sea Robber

‘Please make yourselves comfortable in here until the Sultan sends for you,’ he said suavely, standing aside so that Hector and the others could enter. ‘Food will be brought to you very soon.’ There was an awkward pause, and then he added, ‘The baru baru will be on hand to make sure that you are not disturbed.’ Then without another word he turned away, and an armed guard took up his position at the door. It was clear that the baru baru were the Sultan’s soldiers.

Hector and his companions found themselves in what was evidently some sort of warehouse. To judge by the mouldy smell, it had not been used for a very considerable time. Jezreel pushed open a wickerwork shutter to let in the light. The window looked out over the anchorage, and to their right they could see the kora kora still tied to the jetty. As a group of natives unhitched the towrope of the skiff, the goods that had been taken from the camp already lay in a heap on the waterfront.

‘We could break our way out of here at any time we wanted to,’ said Jezreel, tapping on the wall. It was flimsily made of leaves woven into frames of bamboo.

‘First, I’ve got to get Maria back,’ said Hector.

Jacques had been exploring the warehouse, which was partitioned into a number of large rooms. He came back with an armful of empty sacks that could serve as bedding. ‘Might as well make ourselves comfortable,’ he said cheerfully, throwing them on the floor.

Without warning, the door to the warehouse swung open and a file of a dozen women came in. They wore narrow dark-blue skirts that reached down to their bare feet, short cotton blouses and their hair was covered in headcloths of blue and white cotton. They were carrying covered earthenware bowls and several baskets whose contents were hidden beneath large leaves, and two large pitchers. These they set down on the floor and one of the women unwrapped a cloth bundle, which contained some wooden ladles and bowls. Then they withdrew. Not a word had been said, and it was noticeable that they had avoided looking directly at the strangers.

‘Now what have we got here?’ said Jacques with happy anticipation. He lifted the lid to one on the bowls and sniffed. ‘Fish stew, and a good one. And what are these?’ He peeled back the covering to one of the baskets and picked out what looked like a bun and bit into it. ‘Not bad. Reminds me of wheaten bread, but a little bland.’

‘Sago cake,’ said Vlucht. ‘Cheap food for the locals. Made from the pith of the sago palm. It grows wild in these parts.’

‘Cheap or not, it is a welcome change from rice,’ said Jacques appreciatively. He selected a ladle and stirred the fish soup vigorously. The ingredients swirled to the surface and he scooped up the floating morsels. After sucking up the contents of the ladle, he chewed for a few moments, then put his finger into his mouth and extracted a shred of white flesh.

‘What is this?’ he said, holding it up. ‘I thought it was fish stew.’

‘Sea slug,’ said Vlucht. ‘I came across it in China. Considered a great delicacy. Said to help your virility.’

‘Could be easier on the teeth,’ observed the Frenchman. ‘A bit chewy for some of our toothless Dutch friends over there.’

Toothless or not, the Westflinge ’s survivors joined hungrily in the meal, before the company settled down for the night. Vlucht’s crew chose one of the adjoining rooms as their dormitory, and Hector and his friends, after neatly piling up the empty bowls and baskets near the door, spread out their sacks on the wooden floor and prepared to go to sleep. The only sound was the water lapping around the wooden pilings that supported the building.

Hector lay staring at the rafters. He was anxious about Maria. He sensed her captors wouldn’t harm her, and he was sure that she was well able to look after herself, but he was depressed by the feeling that somehow he’d failed her. Again and again he went over the events of the day, wondering if he could have done things differently and kept her beside him. But everything had happened so quickly and uncontrollably. He fretted that Maria would change her mind, that she wouldn’t want to share a future with someone whose life seemed to lurch from one crisis to the next. Beside him he heard Dan stir, and in the darkness he heard his friend’s quiet voice. ‘Maria is strong. She waited a long time for you to find her, and she’ll know that you will not let her down now. Try to get some rest, for tomorrow we will need to keep our wits about us.’

CILIATI MANSUR came to fetch them soon after dawn. He had changed his immaculate white gown for a similar flowing garment all in black, and his plain turban had been replaced by a strange-looking black velvet cap in the shape of a pyramid.

‘My court dress,’ he explained. ‘As well as being His Majesty’s chamberlain, I also hold the rank of jogugu, his prime minister.’ He adopted a more formal tone. ‘His Majesty commands me to bring before him all those of you who speak Spanish.’ Seeing Hector’s puzzled look, he added in a more normal voice, ‘The Sultan is proud that he knows a few words of Spanish, and likes to demonstrate that knowledge to his courtiers.’

Hector looked around his friends. ‘Dan, you should join me, and Jacques too. But Jezreel can stay behind with Stolck. What about the crew of the Westflinge ?’

The chamberlain shook his head. ‘The captain can come. The Sultan may wish to question him. But it is better that the others stay. Often His Majesty is angered by the sight of Hollanders. They remind him that their trading company favours Ternate and Tidore, and this harms his own kingdom. It will be better for everyone if His Majesty remains in a favourable mood.’

‘What about my betrothed, Maria? When will I be able to see her?’ Hector enquired firmly.

Mansur made a soothing gesture. ‘All in good time,’ he answered. ‘She is well looked after.’

Hector tried not to let his impatience show as the little group left the warehouse. The air was pleasantly cool and fresh as they made their way through a fishermen’s market, which had already been set up on the waterfront so that the night’s catch could be sold before the heat of the day. The displays of small fish on racks of trays were dazzling – spots and stripes and bands of silver and ultramarine and yellow, bright orange and crimson, deep black. Mongrel dogs with curly tails nosed for scraps beneath the stalls, and an occasional cat shrank back and crouched in alarm at the sight of the strangers passing. Soon Mansur turned into the broad, leafy lane that climbed towards the palace, and ten minutes of walking brought them to a point where the path widened out and gave a clear view of the Sultan’s residence just ahead. Unlike the simpler homes of his subjects, the Sultan’s palace was built with brick walls and had a roof of dark-red tiles. A broad portico, its roof supported by tall wooden columns, ran the full length of the front of the building. Two small saluting cannon stood on each side of the steps leading to the double entrance doors. The guns pointed out over the harbour, and the strange carriage of the day before was parked prominently close by.

‘A gift from the Spanish, long ago,’ the chamberlain explained, indicating the carriage. ‘They left some horses as well. But the animals soon died. Nevertheless, the Sultans of Omoro still set great store by its use. No other ruler has such a conveyance.’

Several natives who looked like palace guards lounged at the head of the steps. When they saw the chamberlain coming towards them, they scrambled to attention, and one of them hurried inside.

‘Those are kabo, the Sultan’s gatekeepers, and they have gone ahead to announce our arrival. You must follow our rules of etiquette,’ warned Mansur as he led them up the steps and in through the tall double doors. ‘Always address the Sultan as “Your Majesty” and do not approach closer than ten feet. It will also be appreciated if you would speak loudly and clearly. He is getting a little deaf.’