[FONT=PALATINO_LINOTYPE]CHAPTER VI - A VENGANÇHA[/FONT]
Manuel I of Lusitania was overjoyed. Great whooping could be heard throughout the Palace. His efforts and his risk-taking had finally paid off! There were others who survived the great plague! Others who were- it seemed- also just coming out of their shell! There were no words in the Lusitanian language to describe Manuel’s utter joy but the churchgoers’ chanting came close enough.
Fifteen days of thanksgiving were given to the honour of Afonso de Albuquerque for discovering this people, and all of his men were given a paid leave of one month.
Apprentices in the churches and monasteries began to show their interest in teaching the next civilisation of our glorious religion, and of learning of how they worshipped God. Manuel himself visited all the Gibraltar monasteries and hand picked twenty apprentices and five elders to go document the cultural activities of the Catalanes.
Lusitania was in motion: More and more Granadians expressed their desire to settle in Murçha- an empty land separating Catalunha from Granadia much like Andalusia separates Gibraltar from what is hopefully Portugal Proper (Vasco da Gama’s sea charts indicate it probably is, but maybe that was simply to get in the King’s favour…).
Consequently, Manuel told the temporary Governor of Granadia (a clerk who worked for Jorge in his absence) to prepare a charter of one hundred men to settle in Murçha.
***
Jorge unwittingly arrives in his splendorous Marshall’s uniform on the same crest where Camoens met his death. It’s almost noon and the men are becoming increasingly exhausted, their steps slipping further back on the soft desert sands than they manage to move forwards.
Consequently Jorge orders a short halt, under the cooling shadow of the Great Mountain. It is now visible this mountain is but part of a long and tall mountain range. One which Jorge baptises after his own name:
A Serra Jorgeana.
In the distance Jorge spies a group of natives- about three-hundred men- making their way towards the depression in the land, where- like Camoens before him- Jorge had placed his grand army.
By noon these savages arrive at the borders of the camp. Held in custody by three guards their pretentious leader- a wrinkled old man with whitened hair and blue-grey eyes- is brought to Jorge. They speak a strange tongue but Jorge soon finds an interpreter- a man from Jerez who once ventured into these parts and knows their language on a rudimentary level. Immediately the ancient leader begins with a stream of seemingly incomprehensible words:
“Deohsez! Sahbez ke noh ez nesesaryo mahntehnermeh azi! Zentehmonoz ih ahblehmoz kohmo ombrez!”
The interpreter takes a while but then proclaims:
“He wants to sit down and make you speak like a man…?...!”
Jorge is surprised. “Are you sure that’s what he said?” The interpreter nods securely.
“Okay, translate this now, word for word:”
”You Sunni scum you killed Camoens and Almeida and so many great and upstanding Lusitanii you will die for this pig!”
The interpreter contemplates this…then proceeds:
“Belykos Sunnii, uztedz matahron ah Camoens ih Almeida ih tahntoz utroz. Morihrann!”
The native leader seems unaffected by this sudden outburst:
“Tehk mi toh joer líder.”
The interpreter stands silent. Jorge is uncertain how to react. “Goddamn you I don’t know what you’re saying! Interpreter, what’s he saying!” The interpreter shrugs.
“Tehk mi toh joer líder.” The native repeats.
“I think it’s a northeners’ dialect” the interpreter suggests, but that just feeds the fire.
“DIALECT? YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO UNDERSTAND THIS! HOW ARE WE SUPPOSED TO SPEAK WITH OUR LONG LOST PORTUGUESE BROTHERS IF YOU DON’T EVEN UNDERSTAND THESE PEOPLE?!”
“Tehk mi toh joer líder.” The native calmly interrupts.
A guard seems to understand: “He can speak our tongue, Your Honour. I believe he says take me to your lidders.”
“What?” We don’t need lids, Jorge thinks. “WE’RE NOT A JAM-POTTING BAND OF BROTHERS YOU PILE OF CABALHO-MANURE! NOW TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT OR I’LL STRIKE YOU DOWN AND YOUR FIFTY LITTLE FOLLOWERS DOWN THERE!” Jorge points to the bottom of the valley, where the remaining natives had been held back.
The guards are gone.
The three hundred natives are gone.
There’s just one big mass of native soldiers, probably about six thousand, surrounding the grand army. “WHY DIDN’T ANYONE TELL ME THIS WAS HAPENNING?” Jorge roared. He unsheathed his sword and pointed it at the native leader’s neck. “STOP THEM OR YOU DIE AND YOUR FAMILY DIES AND YOUR PETS DIE AND I FEED YOU ALL TO THE RATS, THEN BOTTLE YOU AND MARKET YOU AS
EAU DE NATIVE!”
The native’s fear shines from his wrinkled eyes. “Duhn’t kiel mih! Ay’m noeht da líder. Ve’r dyust enozent pazifiztz. Ve ver forsd teuh bitrey jooh. Protekd uz frumm zehm pliz! Ve behg jooh…” This all came out with such speed that nobody understood what he said. Nobody apart from Jorge.
Pacifist natives? We cannot show mercy. That would mean the end of Lusitanian colonisation and expansion! No. They live on the same lands as the warmongering Sunnii, and so they must perish for posterity:
“I don’t understand you,” Jorge calmly says as his sword transverses the ageing man.
Jorge encourages his men and heads down to support his wavering army.
***
“This bloody day marks the beginning of a new era.” Jorge says as he surveys his army looting the dead natives. It had taken Jorge three further assaults on the native camps before they were driven from Andalusia. Few escaped; mostly the nimblest women and children made it to surrounding provinces but the men have all been slain, young or old. “Organise the army, tomorrow we head for the
Long Northbound Coast. Oh, and send a message to King Manuel: The Sunnii are slain, and the best strategy from here on is to send settlers to Andalusia to support and supply our troops in Portugal Proper.
Os RECONQUISTADORES vençheran!”
***
Manuel was overjoyed at the news that his ennemies in Andalusia had been eradicated. He had no knowledge of them being Sunni. As a matter of fact it seemed more each day that Manuel was reverting into a child-like state of mind, where he lets Jorge resolve everything for him.
Upon hearing that the Sunni in Murçha had been converted to the great Lusitanian religion by the colonists (one hundred brave souls) who had successfully settled there Manuel decided it was time for a little escapade. He would join Jorge in the field, and together they would find Portugal Proper!