They even called him "Signor Colombo." That hadn't happened much before. His father was only rarely called "signor," despite the fact that in recent years Cristoforo's earnings had allowed Domenico Colombo to prosper, moving the weaving shop to larger quarters and wearing finer clothing and riding a horse like a gentleman and buying a few small houses outside the city walls so he could play the landlord. So the t.i.tle was certainly not one that came readily to one of Cristoforo's birth. On this voyage, however, it was not just the sailors but also the captain himself who gave Colombo the courtesy t.i.tle. It was a sign of how far he had come, this basic respect - but not as important a sign as having the trust of the Spinolas.

The voyage wasn't easy, even at the outset. The seas weren't rough, but they weren't placid, either. Cristoforo noticed with secret enjoyment that he was the only one of the commercial agents who wasn't sick. Instead he pa.s.sed the time as he did on all his voyages - poring over the charts with the navigator or conversing with the captain, pumping them for all the information they knew, for everything they could teach him. Though he knew his destiny lay to the east, he also knew that he would someday have a ship - a fleet - that might need to voyage through every known sea. Liguria he knew; the voyage to Chios, his first open-sea journey, his first that ever lost sight of land, his first that relied on navigation and calculation, had given him a glimpse of eastern seas. And now he would see the west, going through the straits of Gibraltar and then veering north, coasting Portugal, crossing the Bay of Biscay - names he had heard of only in sailors' lore and brag. The gentlemen - the other gentlemen - might puke their way across the Mediterranean, but Cristoforo would use every moment, preparing himself, until at last he was ready to be the servant in the hands of G.o.d who would ...

He dared not think of it, or G.o.d would know the awful presumption, the deadly pride that he concealed within his heart.

Not that G.o.d didn't already know, of course. But at least G.o.d also knew that Cristoforo did his best not to let his pride possess him. Thy will, O Lord, not mine be done. If I am the one to lead thy triumphant armies and navies on a mighty crusade to liberate Constantinople, drive the Muslims from Europe, and once again raise the Christian banner in Jerusalem, then so be it. But if not, I will do any task thou hast in mind for me, great or humble. I will be ready. I am thy true servant.

What a hypocrite I am, thought Cristoforo. To pretend that my motives are pure. I laid my purse from Chios into the bishop's own hands - but then used it to advance my cause with Nicolo Spinola. And even then, it wasn't the whole purse. I'm wearing a good part of it; a gentleman has to have the right clothes or people don't call him Signor. And much more of it went to Father, to buy houses and dress Mother like a lady. Hardly the perfect offering of faith. Do I want to become rich and influential in order to serve G.o.d? Or do I serve G.o.d in hopes that it will make me rich and influential?

Such were the doubts that plagued him, between his dreams and plans. Most of the time, though, he spent pumping the captain and the navigator or studying the charts or staring at the coasts they pa.s.sed, making his own maps and calculations, as if he were the first ever to see this place.

"There are plenty of charts of the Andalusian coast," said the navigator.

"I know," said Cristoforo. "But I learn more by charting them myself than I ever would by studying them. And I have the charts to check against my own maps."

The truth was that the charts were full of errors. Either that or some supernatural power had moved the capes and bays, the beaches and promontories of the Iberian coast, so that now and then there was an inlet that wasn't shown on any chart. "Were these charts made by pirates?" he asked the captain one day. "They seem designed to make sure that a corsair can dodge out to engage us in battle without any warning."

The captain laughed. "They are Moorish charts, or so I've heard. And the copyists aren't always perfect. They miss a feature now and then. What do they know, sitting at their tables, far from any sea? We follow the charts generally and learn where the mistakes are. If we sailed these coasts all the time, as the Spanish sailors do, then we'd rarely need these charts at all. And they aren't about to issue corrected charts, because they have no wish to help the ships of other nations to sail safely here. Every nation guards its charts. So keep to your mapmaking, Signor Colombo. Someday your charts may have value to Genova. If this voyage is a success, there'll be others."

There was no reason to think it would not be a success, until two days after they pa.s.sed through the straits of Gibraltar, when a cry went up: "Sails! Corsairs!"

Cristoforo rushed to the gunwale, where shortly the sails became visible. The pirates were not Moorish, by the look of them. And they had not been daunted by the five merchant ships sailing together. Why should they? The pirates had five corsairs of their own.

"I don't like this," said the captain.

"We're evenly matched, aren't we?" asked Cristoforo.

"Hardly," said the captain. "We're loaded with cargo; they're not. They know these waters; we don't. And they're used to b.l.o.o.d.y-handed fighting. What do we have? Sword-bearing gentlemen and sailors who are terrified of battle on the open sea."

"Nevertheless," said Cristoforo, "G.o.d will fight on the side of just men."

The captain gave him a withering look. "I don't know that we're any more righteous than others who've had their throats slit. No, we'll outrun them if we can, or if we can't, we'll make them pay so dear that they'll give up and leave us. What are you good for, in a battle?"

"Not much," said Cristoforo. It would do no good to promise more than he could deliver. The captain deserved to know whom he could and could not count on. "I carry the sword for the respect of it."

"Well, these pirates will respect the blade only if it's well blooded. Have you an arm for throwing?"

"Rocks, as a boy," said Cristoforo.

"Good enough for me. If things look bad, then this is our last hope - we'll have pots filled with oil. We set them afire and hurl them onto the pirate ships. They can't very well fight us if their decks are afire."

"They have to be awfully close, then, don't they?"

"As I said - we only use these pots if things look bad."

"What's to keep the flames from spreading to our own ships, if theirs are in flames?"

The captain looked coldly at him. "As I said - we want to make our fleet a worthless conquest for them." He looked again at the corsairs' sails, which were well behind them and farther off the coast. "They want to pinch us against the sh.o.r.e," he said. "If we can make it to Cape St. Vincent, where we can turn north, then we'll lose them. Till then they'll try to intercept us as we tack outward, or run us aground on the sh.o.r.eward tack."

"Then let's tack outward now," said Cristoforo. "Let's establish ourselves as far from sh.o.r.e as possible."

The captain sighed. "The wisest course, my friend, but the sailors won't stand for it. They don't like being out of sight of land if there's a fight."

"Why not?"

"Because they can't swim. Their best hope is to ride some flotsam in, if we do badly."

"But if we don't sail out of sight of sh.o.r.e, how can we do well?"

"This isn't a good time to expect sailors to be rational," said the captain. "And one thing's sure - you can't lead sailors where they don't want to go."

"They wouldn't mutiny."

"If they thought I was leading them to drown, they'd put this ship to sh.o.r.e and leave the cargo for the pirates. Better than drowning, or being sold into slavery."

Cristoforo had not realized this. It hadn't come up on any of his voyages before, and the sailors didn't speak of this when they were ash.o.r.e in Genova. No, then they were all courage, fun of fight. And the idea that the captain couldn't lead wherever he might wish to command ... Cristoforo brooded about that idea for days, as the corsairs paced them, squeezing them ever closer to the sh.o.r.e.

"French," said the navigator.

As soon as he said the word, a sailor near him said, "Coullon."

Cristoforo started at the name. In Genova he had heard enough French, despite the hostility of the Genovese for a nation that had more than once raided their docks and tried to burn the city, to know that coullon was the French version of his own family's name: Colombo, or, in Latin, Columbus.

But the sailor who said it was not French, and seemed to have no idea that the name would mean anything to Cristoforo.

"Might be Coullon," said the navigator. "Bold as he is, it's more likely to be the devil - but then they say that Coullon is the devil."

"And everyone knows the devil is French!" said a sailor.

They laughed, all who could hear, but there was little real mirth in it. And the captain made a point of showing Cristoforo where the firepots were, once the ship's boy had filled them. "Make sure you keep fire in your hands," he said to Cristoforo. "That is your blade, Signor Colombo, and they'll respect you."

Was the pirate Coullon toying with them? Was that why he let them stay just out of reach until Cape St. Vincent was tantalizingly in view? Certainly Coullon had no trouble then, closing the gap, cutting them off before they could break to the north, around the cape, into the open Atlantic.

There was no hope of coordinating the defense of the fleet now. Each captain had to find his own way to victory. The captain of Cristoforo's ship realized at once that if he kept his current course he'd be run aground or boarded almost at once. "Come around!" he cried. "Get the wind behind us!"

It was a bold strategy, but the sailors understood it, and the other ships, seeing what Cristoforo's old whaler was doing, followed suit. They'd have to pa.s.s among the corsairs, but if they did it right, they'd end up with the open sea ahead of them, the corsairs behind them, and the wind with them. But Coullon was no fool, and brought his corsairs around in time to throw grappling hooks at the pa.s.sing Genovese merchantmen.

As the pirates pulled the ropes hand over hand, forcing the boats together, Cristoforo could see that the captain had been right: Their own crew would have little hope in a fight. Oh, they'd give such a battle as they could, knowing that it was their lives at stake. But there was despair in all their eyes, and they visibly shrank from the bloodshed that was coming. He heard one burly sailor saying to the ship's boy, "Pray that you'll die." It wasn't encouraging; nor was the obvious eagerness on the part of the pirates.

Cristoforo reached down, took the match from the cinderpot, touched it to two of the firepots, and then, holding them tight though they singed his doublet, he stepped atop the forecastle, where he could get a clear throw at the nearest corsair. "Captain!" he cried. "Now?"

The captain didn't hear him - there was too much shouting at the helm. Never mind. Cristoforo could see that things were desperate, and the closer the corsairs got, the likelier the chance of the flames taking both ships. He threw the pot.

His arm was strong, his aim true, or true enough. The pot shattered on the corsair's deck, splashing flames like a spin of bright orange dye across the wood. In moments it was dancing up the sheets to the sails. For the first time, the pirates weren't grinning and hooting. Now they pulled all the more grimly on the grappling lines, and Cristoforo realized that of course their only hope, with their own ship afire, was to take the merchant vessel.

Turning, he could see that another corsair, also grappling with a Genovese ship, was close enough that he could visit a bit of fire on it, too. His aim was not as good - the pot splashed harmlessly into the sea. But now the ship's boy was lighting the pots and handing them up to him, and Cristoforo managed to put two onto the deck of the farther corsair, and another pair onto the deck of the pirate ship that was preparing to board his own. "Signor Spinola," he said, "forgive me for losing your cargo."

But Signor Spinola would not hear his prayers, he knew. And it wasn't a matter of his career as a trader now. It was a matter of saving his life. Dear G.o.d, he said silently, am I to be your servant or not? I give my life to you, if you spare it now. I will free Constantinople. "The Hagia Sophia will once again hear the music of the holy ma.s.s," he murmured. "Only save me alive, dear G.o.d."

"This is his moment of decision?" asked Kemal.

"No, of course not," said Diko. "I just wanted you to see what I was doing. This scene has been shown a thousand times, of course. Columbus against Columbus, they called it, since he and the pirate had the same name. But all the recordings were from the days of the Tempoview, right? So we saw his lips move, but in the chaos of battle there was no hope of hearing what he said. He was speaking too softly, his lips moved too slightly. And this bothered no one, because after all, what does it matter how a man prays in the midst of battle?"

"But this does matter, I think," said Ha.s.san. "The Hagia Sophia?"

"The holiest shrine in Constantinople. Perhaps the most beautiful Christian place in all the world, in these days before the Sistine Chapel. And when Columbus is praying for G.o.d to spare his life, what does he vow? An eastern crusade. I found this several days ago, and it kept me awake night after night. Everyone had always looked for the origin of his westward voyage back farther, on Chios, perhaps, or in Genova. But he has already left Genova now for the last time. He'll never turn back. And he's only a week away from the beginning of his time in Lisbon, when it's clear that he has already turned his eyes irrevocably, resolutely to the west. And yet here, at this moment, he vows to liberate Constantinople."

"Unbelievable," said Kemal.

"So you see," said Diko, "I knew that whatever it was that turned him to his obsession with the western voyage, with the Indies, it must have happened between this moment on board this ship whose sails are already burning, and his arrival in Lisbon a week later."

"Excellent," said Ha.s.san. "Fine work, Diko. This narrows it down considerably."

"Father," said Diko. "I discovered this days ago. I told you that I found the moment of decision, not that I had found the week."

"Then show us," said Tagiri.

"I'm afraid to," said Diko.

"And why is that?"

"Because it's impossible. Because ... because as far as I can tell, G.o.d speaks to him."

"Show us," said Kemal. "I've always wanted to hear the voice of G.o.d."

Everyone laughed.

Except Diko. She didn't laugh. "You're about to," she said.

They stopped laughing.

The pirates were aboard, and along with them came the fire, leaping from sail to sail. It was obvious to all that even if they somehow repulsed the pirates, both ships were doomed. Those sailors who weren't already engaged in b.l.o.o.d.y-handed combat began throwing kegs and hatch covers into the water, and several managed to get the ship's boat into the water on the side opposite the pirates' ship. Cristoforo saw how the captain disdained to abandon his ship - he was fighting bravely, his sword dancing. And then the sword wasn't there, and through the smoke swirling across the deck Cristoforo could no longer see him.

Sailors were leaping into the sea, striking out for bits of floating debris. Cristoforo caught a glimpse of one sailor pushing another from a hatch-cover; he saw another go under the water without having found anything to cling to. The only reason pirates hadn't yet reached Cristoforo himself was that they were making some effort to cut loose the burning masts of the Genovese ship before the fire spread down to the deck. It looked to Cristoforo as though they might succeed, saving themselves and the cargo at the expense of the Genovese. That was intolerable. The Genovese would fail in any case - but Cristoforo could at least make certain that the pirates also failed.

Taking two more flaming pots in his hands, he lobbed one out onto the deck of his own ship, and then the second even farther, so that the helm was soon engulfed in flames. The pirates cried out in rage - those who weren't screaming in pain or terror - and their eyes soon found Cristoforo and the ship's boy on the forecastle.

"I think now's the time for us to leap into the sea," said Cristoforo.

"I can't swim," said the ship's boy.

"I can," said Cristoforo. But first he pulled up the hatch cover from the forecastle, dragged it to the gunwale, and heaved it over the side. Then, taking the boy by the hand, he jumped into the water just as the pirates swarmed up from the deck.

The boy was right about his inability to swim, and it took Cristoforo considerable effort just to get him up onto the hatch cover. But once the boy was safely atop the floating wood, he calmed down. Cristoforo tried to get part of his own weight onto the tiny raft, but it made it tilt dangerously down into the water, and the boy panicked. So Cristoforo let himself back down into the water. It was five leagues to sh.o.r.e, at least - more likely six. Cristoforo was a strong swimmer, but not that strong. He needed to cling to something to help bear his weight so he could rest in the water from time to time, and if it couldn't be this hatch cover, he would have to leave it and find something else. "Listen, boy!" shouted Cristoforo. "The sh.o.r.e is that way!" He pointed.

Did the boy understand? His eyes were wide, but at least he looked at Cristoforo as he spoke.

"Paddle with your hands," said Cristoforo. "That way!"

But the boy just sat there, terrified, and then he looked away from Cristoforo toward the burning ship.

It was too tiring, treading water while trying to communicate with this boy. He had saved the boy's life, and now he had to get about the business of saving his own.

What he finally found, as he swam toward the invisible sh.o.r.e, was a floating oar. It wasn't a raft and couldn't lift him entirely out of the water, but by straddling the handle and keeping the blade of the oar flat under his chest and face he was able to get some respite when his arms grew weary. Soon he left the smoke of the fires behind him, and then the sound of screaming men, though whether he ceased hearing that awful noise because he had swum so far or because all had drowned, he could not guess. He did not look back; he did not see the burning hulks finally slip down under the water. Already the ships were forgotten, and his commercial mission. All he thought of now was moving his arms and legs, struggling through the heaving waters of the Atlantic toward the ever-receding sh.o.r.e.

Sometimes Cristoforo was sure that there was a current running away from sh.o.r.e, that he was caught in it and would be carried away no matter what he did. He ached, his arms and legs were exhausted and could move no more, and yet he kept them moving, however weakly now, and at last, at last he could see that he was indeed much closer to sh.o.r.e than before. It gave him hope enough to keep going, though the pain in his joints made him feel as though the sea were tearing his limbs off.

He could hear the crashing of waves against the sh.o.r.e. He could see scruffy-looking trees on low bluffs. And then a wave broke around him, and he could see the beach. He swam farther, then tried to stand. He could not. Instead he collapsed back into the water, only now he had lost the oar and for a moment he went under the water, and it occurred to him that it would be such a foolish thing for him to swim so far only to drown on the beach because his legs were too weary to hold him.

Cristoforo decided not to do anything so foolish as to die here and now, though the idea of giving up and resting did have a momentary appeal. Instead he pushed against the bottom with his legs, and because the water was, after all, not deep, his head rose above the surface and he breathed again. Half swimming, half walking, he forced his way to sh.o.r.e and then crept across the wet until he reached dry sand. Nor did he stop then - some small rational part of his mind told him that he must get above the high tide, marked by the line of dried-up sticks and seaweed many yards beyond him. He crawled, crept, finally dragged himself to that line and beyond it; then he collapsed into the sand, unconscious at once.

It was the high tide that woke him, as several of the highest reaching waves cast thin riffs of water up to the old high-tide line, tickling his feet and then his thighs. He woke up with a powerful thirst, and when he tried to move he found that all his muscles were on fire with pain. Had he somehow broken his legs and arms? No, he quickly realized. He had simply drawn from them more work than they had been designed to give, and he was paying for it now with pain.

Pain, though, was not going to make him stay on the beach to die. He got up onto all fours and crawled ahead until he reached the first tufts of sh.o.r.egra.s.s. Then he looked about for some sign of water he could drink. This close to sh.o.r.e it was almost too much to hope for, but how could he regain his strength without something to drink? The sun was setting. Soon it would be too dark to see, and while the night would cool him, it might as easily chill him, and weak as he was, it might kill him.

"Oh G.o.d," he whispered through parched lips. "Water."

Diko stopped the playback. "You all know what happens here, yes?"

"A woman from the village of Lagos comes and finds him," said Kemal. "They nurse him back to health and then he leaves for Lisbon."

"We've seen this in the Tempoview a thousand times," said Ha.s.san. "Or at least thousands of people have seen it at least once."

"That's exactly right," said Diko. "You've seen it in the Tempoview." She went over to one of the older machines, kept now only for playing back old recordings. She ran the appropriate pa.s.sage at high speed; looking like a comical, jerky puppet, Columbus peered in one direction, and then fell back into the sand for a while, perhaps praying, until he knelt up again and crossed himself and said, "The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." It was in that posture that the woman of Lagos - Maria Luisa, daughter of Simao o Gordo, to be precise - found him. Also looking like a marionette in the fast Tempoview playback, she ran back to the village for help.

"Is this what you've all seen?" she asked.

It was.

"Obviously nothing happens," she said. "So who would have bothered to come back to look at this with the TruSite II? But that is what I did, and here is what I saw." She returned to the TruSite II and resumed the playback. They all watched as Columbus looked about for water, turning his head slowly, obviously exhausted and in pain. But then, to their shock, they heard a soft voice.

"Cristoforo Colombo," said the voice.

A figure, then two figures, shimmered in the darkening air before Columbus. Now as he peered in that direction, all the watchers could see that he was not looking for water, but rather staring at the image that formed itself in the air.

"Cristobal Coln. Coullon. Columbus." The voice went on, calling his name in language after language. It was barely, barely audible. And the image never quite resolved itself into clarity.

"So tenuous," murmured Ha.s.san. "The Tempoview would never have been able to detect this. Like smoke or steam. A slight excitation of the air."

"What are we seeing?" demanded Kemal.

"Be still and listen, " said Tagiri, impatient. "What conclusion can you reach before you've seen the data?"