The Last Crusade: The Epic Voyages of Vasco Da Gama (32 page)

The young commander had the hand of history at his back. His brother made no more objections.

The next day, May 28, Gama buckled his gilded belt around his waist and ran his sword into its scabbard. He fastened his gilt spurs
onto his buskins, and placed his stiff, square cap, like the birettas worn by priests, on his head. When his ceremonial dress was complete, he emerged from his cabin ready to represent his king. Paulo was left in charge of the ships; Nicolau Coelho was to wait every day in a well-armed boat, as near the shore as was safe, until the delegation returned.

Gama had chosen thirteen men to accompany him. Among them were Diogo Dias and João de Sá, the scribes of the
Gabriel
and
Rafael
, and the interpreter Fernão Martins. The Chronicler was also one of the party. They were dressed in their finest clothes, the boats were decked out with flags, and the trumpeters blew a fanfare as the sailors rowed to the shore.

The wali stepped forward to greet the captain-major. A throng of onlookers had gathered, and they pressed in to catch a glimpse of the strangers. “This reception was friendly,” noted the Chronicler, “as if the people were pleased to see us, though at first appearances it looked threatening, for they carried naked swords in their hands.”

The reception committee had provided a palanquin for Gama’s use, and he sat on the padded seat. Six strong Indians hoisted the bamboo poles onto their shoulders, the wali climbed into his own palanquin, and the convoy set off along the dirt road to Calicut.

When they reached the small town of Kappad, off which the fleet had first anchored, the porters set down the chairs in front of a handsome house. A local notable was waiting for them, and he gestured them to come inside and eat. Gama stoutly refused the proffered delicacies; his less scrupulous entourage tucked into a meal of well-buttered boiled fish and strange fruits. No doubt the Portuguese wondered at the cow dung that was spread over the floor, partly to fend off the columns of ants that marched everywhere. “They can keep nothing free from being destroyed by these little Animals, to prevent which they have also Cupboards born upon Piles, set in Vessels full of Water, where the Ants drown themselves by thinking to mount up,” observed one European traveler.

After breakfast the party resumed its journey. Still some way
from the town they came to a broad river that flowed parallel to the coast before turning toward the sea. The Indians helped the visitors into two lashed-together canoes, then climbed into dozens more craft that bobbed around them. More curious locals watched from the thickly wooded banks. As the boats pushed off into the middle of the river, the Portuguese caught sight of the silvery skein of backwaters that stretched far inland and the large ships that were drawn up high and dry on their banks.

The company disembarked about a league upriver, and Gama returned to his palanquin. Everywhere the land was divided into large walled gardens, with large houses just visible through the tall trees. Women cradling children in their arms came out to watch and joined the burgeoning procession.

After several hours the visitors finally arrived on the outskirts of Calicut itself. To their deep satisfaction, the first building they saw was a church.

It was a strange church, to be sure.

The complex was old and huge, the size of a monastery. It was built of rust-colored laterite blocks topped with slanting tiled roofs and a pagoda-style porch. In front was a slender bronze pillar as tall as a mast, with the figure of a bird, apparently a rooster, on top, and a stouter second pillar the height of a man. Seven small bells hung from the walls in the entrance.

Gama and his men stepped inside. The passage led to a large hall, which was lit by hundreds of lamps and smelled strongly of incense and smoke. In the center was a square chapel made of stone, with stone steps leading up to a bronze door.

The party was received by a procession of priests who were naked from the waist up, except for three threads slung across their chests like a deacon’s stole. Four went inside the sanctuary and pointed toward a statue hidden in a dark recess.

“Maria, Maria,” they seemed to the Portuguese to chant.

The Indians prostrated themselves on the floor, and the visitors knelt, too, in adoration of the Virgin Mary.

The priests doused the guests with holy water and offered them a white earthlike substance that, the Chronicler noted, “the Christians of this country are in the habit of putting on their foreheads, breasts, around the neck, and on the forearms.” Gama submitted to the dousing, but he handed one of his men his portion of white earth, which would turn out to be partly composed of sacrificial ashes, and gestured that he would put it on later.

Having said their prayers, the explorers looked around them. The walls were covered with colorful portraits of figures they assumed to be saints—though since they boasted “teeth protruding an inch from the mouth, and four or five arms” and looked as ugly as devils, they were clearly an exotic species of saint.

With the ceremony over, the party emerged blinking into the light. Sunk into the ground outside was a huge brick tank filled to the brim with water, lotus flowers floating on the surface, not unlike many others the visitors had seen along the road. They paused to wonder at its purpose, then followed their hosts through a gate into the heart of the city.

The journey halted for a tour of another ancient church paired with another rectangular reservoir. By the time Gama and his men came out, crowds jammed the arrow-straight streets as far as they could see, and the beleaguered foreigners were hustled into a house to await rescue by the wali’s brother. He eventually arrived, attended by soldiers firing muskets and a marching band playing drums, trumpets, and bagpipes. The explorers’ entourage, the Chronicler noted, now included two thousand armed men; by one account, there were five thousand people trying to accompany them through the streets. India was turning out to be an unexpectedly frantic place.

The procession set off again, with more locals joining in and others lining the roofs and windows of the houses. As they finally drew near the Zamorin’s palace, the sea of heads stretched so far that it was impossible to guess at their number. Despite the tumult, though, the Portuguese were struck by the great delicacy and
respect shown the captain-major—“more than is shown in Spain to a king,” remarked the Chronicler.

It was already an hour before sunset. In the square outside the entrance to the sprawling complex, royal servants were handing out coconuts and pouring fresh water from gilded pitchers set on tables under shady trees. A fresh committee of distinguished-looking figures came out to meet the visitors and joined the ranked dignitaries surrounding the captain-major. Everyone struggled on through the great gate, where ten doorkeepers bearing silver-mounted sticks were stationed.

“They little think in Portugal how honorably we are received here,” Gama said to his men, a touch of wonder escaping beneath his usual imperturbability.

Inside was a vast leafy courtyard, with offices and lodgings dotted around amid flower beds, orchards, fish ponds, and fountains. A series of four doorways led to the audience court, and here the crush was so bad that courtesy bowed to necessity. The Portuguese had to force their way through, “giving many blows to the people,” while more porters lay about them with sticks.

A small, wizened figure who turned out to be the Zamorin’s chief priest emerged from the last door. He embraced the captain-major and ushered him into the royal presence. There was room for two or three thousand people in the court, but the excitement to get inside was so great that the Portuguese had to shove and batter even harder, while the Indians brandished knives and slashed several men. When the main party was through, the porters shouldered the door shut, fastened it with an iron bar, and mounted guard.

In the evening light, Vasco da Gama finally came face-to-face with the man he had come twelve thousand miles to meet.

The Samutiri Tirumulpad, King of the Hills and the Waves, was arranged like a Roman emperor on a mound of crisp white cotton cushions. The cushions were piled on a fine white cotton sheet, the sheet was draped over a well-padded mattress, and the mattress rested on a couch covered in green velvet. The floor was
carpeted with the same velvet, the walls were hung with more precious drapes in a rainbow of colors, and above the couch was a canopy, “very white, delicate and sumptuous.” The Zamorin was dressed in a long cotton
sherwani
, a coatlike garment worn open at the front, with his chest uncovered and a sarong-like
lunghi
knotted around his waist. The effect was of expensive simplicity, offset by the heavy jewels set in his ears and on his belt, bracelets, and rings. To his right was a gold stand supporting a cauldron-sized gold basin heaped with the royal drug of choice—paan, made from sliced areca nuts mixed with spices and lime made from oyster shells and wrapped in bitter betel leaves. A dedicated paan attendant stood by preparing the stimulating mixture, and the Zamorin chewed it nonstop. By his left hand was a huge gold spittoon into which he ejected the remains, and another attendant stood ready to moisten his palate with liquid refreshment from an array of silver jugs. Perhaps the visitors paused to think that much of Europe’s bullion ended up here, where it was hoarded as treasure and worked into elaborate ornaments and until now had never been seen again.

Gama approached the Zamorin. He bowed his head, raised his hands high and touched his palms together, then made two fists in the air. He had been practicing the local etiquette, and he repeated the greeting twice more as he had seen the Indians do.

His men followed suit.

The Zamorin beckoned the captain-major closer. Gama, though, had been told that only the paan page was allowed to approach the royal person. He was determined not to cause offense, and he stayed put.

Instead the Zamorin cast his eyes over the rest of the Portuguese contingent and gave orders for them to be seated where he could see them. The thirteen men sat down on a raised stone pavement that ran around the court. Servants brought water for washing their hands and peeled small bananas and huge jackfruit for them. The visitors had never encountered either before, and they stared at them like confused children. The Zamorin watched them
with languid amusement and made some wry comments to his paan attendant, revealing teeth and gums stained a deep orangey-red from too much chewing. For the foreigners’ next trial, the servants handed them a golden ewer and signaled that they were to drink without touching the vessel to their lips. Some of the men poured the contents straight down their throats and started choking, while the rest tipped it over their faces and clothes. The Zamorin chortled even more.

Vasco da Gama had been given a seat facing the royal couch, and the Zamorin turned back to him and invited him to address his remarks to the assembled court. Later on, he indicated, his courtiers would inform him what had been said.

Gama demurred. He was the ambassador of the great king of Portugal, he declared, covering his mouth with his hand—the correct method of address, he had been told, to stop his breath from sullying the royal air. His message was for the Zamorin’s ears only.

The Zamorin seemed to approve. A retainer ushered Gama and Fernão Martins, the Arabic-speaking interpreter, into a private chamber. The Zamorin followed with his chief factor, his head priest, and his paan supplier, who he explained were his trusted confidants. The factor, the Zamorin’s commercial agent, was instantly recognizable from his clothing as a Muslim, but whatever the visitors’ misgivings, his presence was essential: the addresses of the king and the ambassador—one speaking the local Malayalam language, the other Portuguese—had to be translated via Arabic.

The rest of the Portuguese delegation stayed outside, where they watched an old man struggle to remove the royal couch and tried to catch a glimpse of the princesses who peeked down from an upstairs gallery.

Inside the chamber the Zamorin arrayed himself on another couch, this one covered with gold-embroidered cloths, and asked the captain-major what he wanted.

Vasco da Gama gave his big speech, and the Chronicler later set it down.

He was the ambassador of the king of Portugal, Gama explained, who was the lord of many countries and was far richer than any Indian ruler. For sixty years his king’s ancestors had sent ships to discover the sea route to India, as they knew that there they would find Christian princes like themselves, of whom the Zamorin was the chief. This alone was the reason they had ordered India to be discovered, and not because they sought gold or silver, which they already had in such plenty that they had no need of any more. Successive captains had voyaged for a year, even two, until their provisions had run out and they had been forced to return home without finding what they sought. A king named Manuel was now on the throne, and he had commanded himself, Vasco da Gama, to take three ships and not return until he had met the ruler of India’s Christians, on pain of having his head cut off. His king had also entrusted him with two letters for the Zamorin, but as it was now past sunset he would present them the following day. In return, King Manuel requested that the Zamorin send ambassadors to Portugal; it was the custom among Christian princes, Gama added, and he did not dare show himself before his lord and master unless he had with him some men from Calicut. Finally, he finished, he was instructed to inform the Zamorin personally that the Portuguese king desired to be his friend and brother.

The captain-major was welcome to Calicut, the Zamorin more succinctly replied. On his part he held him as a friend and brother, and he would gladly send envoys to his king.

It was getting late, and the Zamorin asked—so the Portuguese understood—whether the visitors wished to stay the night with Christians or Muslims.

If the Zamorin was still puzzled about the newcomers’ origins, Gama was still mindful of his narrow escape in Africa. “With neither,” he warily replied, and he begged the favor of lodgings of his own. It was clearly an unusual request, but the Zamorin ordered his factor to provide the strangers with everything they needed. With
that Gama took his leave, highly satisfied with the commencement of his business.