The Fortunate Islands: A novel of the 14th century Canary Islands

Aspasia: A Young Woman Forged by Life at Sea Esmeray, Bastone, and their daughter Aspasia escape the dangers of the War of the Sicilian Vespers, abandoning their Mediterranean trade route. Sailing westward to the edge of the known world, past the Pillars of Hercules, they enter the Atlantic Ocean. The family thrives on the challenges of life at sea, navigating the powerful ocean currents and fierce winds. After calling at ports down the west coast of Africa, they reach the Canary Islands, and find the lost Genoese colony of Captain Lanzarotto, where they encounter the indigenous Majo people and their fascinating culture. Even isolated on these remote islands, away from centers of power, her family must deal with rival sea traders, cruel pirates, and the Church's long reach. Surviving these challenges as a family makes their bonds even stronger. Aspasia matures into a young woman, and with her parents’ guidance, develops into a skilled sailor. Will she choose to keep sailing on the family’s trade ship or settle on the island with the man she loves? Or will Aspasia’s yearning to explore and her longing for discovery lead her to venture even beyond? Adding to the host of dangers, a new threat looms on the horizon—the Black Death.

CHAPTER 1 It should have been a perfect day for sailing. The sun was gentle and the wind brisk. But the hundreds of natives gathered along the shore darkened Esmeray’s mood. How would they react to the arrival of a foreign ship? She ordered the sailors to reef the mainsail, slowing the Giovanna as it neared Lanzarotto Island. A narrow channel linked the sea to a protected cove, and the crystal-clear water showed the course was deep enough. She gestured to the helmsman to sail ahead. He pulled on the steering oar, “Si, Capitanu.” Esmeray scanned the semi-arid landscape as the ship entered the cove. In the fields above the sandy beach, islanders tended small fields of barley, the grain’s ochre color blending with the surrounding terrain. A boy watched over a herd of goats, their gentle bleating carrying across the calm landscape. A Genoese trading ship was moored in the cove, appearing empty except for a few sailors paying casual attention to the arrival of the Giovanna. Everything looked peaceful, but her husband, Bastone, in charge of the arbalesters, had his crossbowmen with weapons ready. He stayed alert. Onshore, an islander climbed to the roof of a whitewashed cottage. He whistled a series of notes toward a flat-topped mountain, signaling the ship’s arrival. Bastone cupped his ear as a sequence of whistles returned from the direction of the mountain. Soon, glints of sunlight progressed down its slopes. The arbalesters remained vigilant, but the crew returned to normal duties. They lowered the jib, dropped anchor, and furled both sails, the vessel drifting to a halt. The sandy floor of the cove was bright in the May sunlight. Esmeray and Bastone’s daughter, Aspasia, raced to the stern. The girl’s long hair swirled in the northeastern wind. “Let’s go ashore!” she called. She peered down at their fishing boat, a robust craft of eighteen feet, a trohantiras, built on the Greek island of Chios. The boat was connected by a towline to the trade ship Giovanna. The larger vessel was five times the length of the boat and crewed by sixty sailors. Aspasia began untying the towline, the fishing boat dipping and rising in the gentle swells. The girl, not quite eleven, had become very strong, pulling up fishing traps since she was four. Aspasia could draw the boat hand over hand to the ship by herself. Esmeray gently placed her hand on her daughter’s. Her “little dolphin” was always eager to be on the water. “Delfinina. No. We aren’t going ashore yet.” Aspasia waved toward the beach. “It’s safe, Mamma. I would sail only in the cove.” “Your father will go ashore with his men first to confirm it’s safe.” She handed Aspasia a belaying pin, looking down where her daughter had untied the bowline knot. “And I want to see you retie that gassa.” “But, Mamma, it looks so calm. . . .” Aspasia staggered for an instant, dropping the wooden rod. “Ci cosa, what!” Her eyes were wide. The pin rolled back and forth across the deck. “That wasn’t a wave.” Esmeray said, “It felt like the ship was shifting sideways.” She glanced at the water surface. “But we aren’t moving.” A distant clatter of stones arose from the mountains, followed by boulders rumbling. Then, “BOOM!” Aspasia flinched. Her mother put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and clutched her. Although the blast felt close, its location was unclear. The people tending the fields stopped work but remained composed, gazing southwest toward the dry mountains where smoke trailed from a flattop peak, sullying the perfect blue sky. Bastone appeared unfazed. “Un poco earthquake. Our cousins, who live on Etna, must be used to such events, no? The volcano has only stirred in its sleep.” Esmeray relaxed and shrugged her shoulders. “Eh. If the native people aren’t worried, va beni, it must be fine.” Bastone laughed. The trail of white smoke reduced to puffs, then mere wisps. “Papa, when you get back, can I sail our boat nearby? Just inside the cove? It’s peaceful again.” “Videmu, we will see, Delfinina.” As the crew secured the ship, sailors were already cooking macaroni with chickpeas. Bastone looked back toward the mountain where he had seen the glints of light. The flashes of reflected sunlight were now closer. “I can distinguish figures. It’s a column of soldiers. I’ll wager it’s Captain Lanzarotto.” “Let’s eat first and go ashore when he arrives,” Esmeray said. As they ate with Aspasia, the line of distant troops resolved into soldiers armed with shields and weapons. Bastone finished eating and stood to see better. Emblazoned on each shield was the red cross of Genoa. The soldiers neared the beach. “I am certain it’s Lanzarotto, the governor of the Genoese colony.” Bastone headed across the deck, calling for a pair of arbalesters to escort him to shore. They lowered the ship’s dinghy over the port side and descended on a knotted rope. Aspasia was on the Giovanna’s sterncastle, appearing envious that she would not go ashore with him. The dinghy was halfway to the beach when Esmeray shouted for Bastone to return. A few hundred yards out to sea beyond the cove, a pair of unknown ships approached. The vessels’ sharp bows, slender hulls, and four-sided settee sails suggested they were dhows, Arab ships, but neither boat displayed colors. On shore, an islander climbed to a cottage roof, but instead of whistling, blew a conch shell, sending three long blasts toward the mountain. Women in the fields grabbed the children and fled inland along a track leading north. Pigs and goats scattered, adding to the mayhem. The men lining the beach retrieved spears and clubs and returned, gathering near the white cottage. With Bastone still on the dinghy, Ayman, Esmeray’s first mate, organized the crossbowmen, ready at the starboard side. They crouched behind round shields. Behind each arbalester was a sailor with a spare crossbow. Ayman shouted from the main deck to Esmeray above on the sterncastle. “Capitanu, they are not flying banners. Pirates for sure.” “Aspasia. Go to our cabin and bar the door,” said Esmeray, her assertive tone compelling her daughter to rush down the steps to the main deck. Two dhows entered the harbor with the wind at their backs. They were now within crossbow range. Esmeray heard the thunks of crossbolts on the hulls of the approaching dhows. A pair of arbalesters, crouched at the bow of the other ship anchored in the cove, were reloading their crossbows. She spoke to herself, “Good try. But we’ll show you how to shoot.” She made a chopping motion in the air, and the first mate ordered the crossbowmen to let loose their bolts. At once, sailors handed a second crossbow to the arbalesters, loaded and ready, cocking the empty crossbows and loading bolts for more volleys. The onslaught of bolts from the Giovanna’s arbalesters forced the pirate dhows to turn. Bolts hit several of the dhows’ sailors. The crossbowmen on the Arab ships got off only one volley before dropping to the deck, overwhelmed by the shower of bolts from the Giovanna. Although the Arab ships were now at a right angle to the wind, their sails were lateen-rigged, and they tacked, keeping up their speed to head out to sea. As the Arabs retreated, jeers erupted from sailors and those on shore. Esmeray rushed down the stairs to the main deck and knocked on their cabin door. “Aspasia, it’s me.” Bastone climbed aboard the ship as Esmeray knocked a second time. She was relieved the threats had ended and their family was safe and yearned to hug her husband. But she couldn’t in front of the crew. She had remained calm despite the crises they’d faced since entering the cove—the unknown harbor, the unsettling earthquake, and the pirate attack. Esmeray rattled the door latch again. “Aspasia.” “I missed the excitement,” said Bastone. “It appears you didn’t need me.” Still unruffled, she exchanged smiles with her husband and said, “I will always need you, dolcezzo mio.” Aspasia answered from behind the locked door. “Mamma, you told me not to open unless you said the code word.” Esmeray sighed, traded glances with Bastone, then checked that no one was within hearing distance. She whispered, “Ciciri!” The wooden bar groaned as Aspasia slid it to unblock the door. As she opened the door, one of the ship’s mousers streaked between Esmeray’s legs. “What was Ciciri doing in there?” “I couldn’t find Tangier.” “Did you go to the hold to get the cats? You were supposed to go straight to the cabin! Extra duty for you, young lady! Go wash down the head.” “I already . . . “ “Wash it again, and this time scrub the lattice. And how do you answer?” “Si, Capitanu!” Aspasia started for the bow but stopped when her mother added, “No sailing today, either.” Bastone nodded in agreement. Esmeray glanced past her husband. “Looks like you need to row ashore.” The armed troop from the mountain gathered near a whitewashed cottage in the shade of a handful of date palm trees. Bastone gestured for the first mate, Ayman, to join them on the sterncastle, where Esmeray was helping Bastone don his chain mail. They stood at the taffrail, examining the soldiers on shore. The first mate arrived, “Si, Signore.” The banner on the other ship waved in the northeasterly breeze. Bastone said, “That ship has a Genoese flag, and the red cross of Genoa is on their shields. They are paesani, my countrymen. But there are also many Genoese who are outright pirates.” Esmeray made brief eye contact with Bastone, recalling the attack by Genoese pirates off Greece years prior. He tilted his head down, stroking his chin with his forefinger and thumb. Esmeray and Aymen waited in silence as he mulled over the situation. Bastone looked up. “Why did they send an armed troop of men when we arrived?” Ayman glanced at Esmeray, then Bastone. “Sir, the pirates were attacking.” Bastone looked toward the mountain. “No . . . I mean the timing. The Genoese started marching well before the dhows entered the cove. Before we even saw the dhows, the troop had almost arrived.” He turned his gaze toward the shore. “Have our arbalesters ready on the port side in case of trouble when I go ashore.” “Si, signore. We won’t miss at this distance.” Bastone tapped a finger on his temple and said, “Che scemo, I am an idiot! That’s why they arrived so soon. Lanzarotto was watching from the summit of that flat mountain. At that elevation they saw the dhows hours before they reached the island.” He looked at Aymen. “I still want the arbalesters ready.” When Bastone turned to board the dinghy, Esmeray placed her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes met Bastone’s as she said, “Ayman, bring the trohantiras along the starboard side, out of sight from the shore. I want the second mate with armed sailors in the boat ready to reinforce Bastone. Keep the boat hidden behind the ship until my command.” Bastone sat in the dinghy as one of his men steered and the other rowed toward shore. How lucky he was to have married a clever woman. When he slipped, she ensured his safety. Bastone hoped their success repelling the pirate attack would help open trade with the island. He needed the business. Their dealings at the ports of call on the North African coast had been less profitable than he had expected, and he needed to set up a lucrative trade here. He glanced back at the Giovanna. Aspasia had joined Esmeray on the sterncastle. More important than a trade agreement, Bastone didn’t want to resume the trade routes to Sicily and expose Aspasia to the dangers of the war. And he had another important reason not to return to the Mediterranean. Living on the high seas and basing their trade in North Africa had kept them away from the influence of the Catholic communities that had been cruel to Esmeray because of her unconventional role as a ship’s captain as well her lack of traditional faith. She would never go back there. The farmers gathered on the shore appeared to be both native islanders and Genoese colonists, judging by their attire. Most of the native men wore only a loincloth of smooth hide, likely made of tanned goatskin. Several had kilts of woven rushes, and a few wore hide cloaks over their shoulders. The men who appeared to be Genoese wore clothes typical of a sailor—pants cut off below the knee and loose blouses, all looking worn and needing patching. The women and children gathered on the beach. Most wore smocks of goatskin, reaching to the knees. A few younger women had only skirts of woven palm fronds, their long, dark hair falling over their breasts. Bastone estimated there were thirty or forty Genoese armed with metal weapons, and a hundred natives who carried sticks and spears. They outnumbered the Giovanna’s crew, but he had a troop of skilled arbalesters ready to support him. Bastone saw only a few crossbows among the Genoese men on shore. He glanced down at the cask of wine he had brought as a gift, hoping it would help avoid conflict. Everyone on the beach watched the approach of Bastone’s dinghy with great interest. The soldiers and indigenous people didn’t appear hostile, but the eerie silence bothered Bastone. It was too quiet. The typical buzz and murmur of a crowd were lacking. The dinghy beached and the oarsman splashed into the shallow water and grasped the bow rope, as Bastone and the other sailor followed, jumping to the sandy beach. As the sailor secured the boat further onto the sand, Bastone directed his men to stay with the dinghy and keep their crossbows on the floor out of sight. He hoisted the pin cask onto his shoulder, its four gallons of wine plus the weight of his chain mail sinking his feet into the soft sand with each step. It seemed to take a long time to cross the beach. At the forefront of the indigenous people and Genoese colonists, two men were seated on the trunk of a fallen tree, shaded by date palms. They stood as Bastone approached. One man was of medium height, with hair almost to his shoulders, parted in the middle. His mustache and short beard were trimmed, and he was the only man wearing plated armor. Lanzarotto? Standing next to him was a tall man of slightly darker complexion, with hair past his shoulders. His beard and mustache were untamed. There were red symbols painted on his forehead, and a green translucent stone on a rawhide cord hung from his neck. Sunlight flashed off the glassy obsidian knife on his hip. Despite wearing a breechcloth and half cape made of tanned goatskin and a conical hat woven from palm fronds, his impressive height, erect posture, and chin held high gave him a regal appearance. His exposed legs and chest were muscular, and his walking stick was blood red, unlike the natural wood sticks of the other native men. Bastone halted and set the cask on the ground. Tedisio Doria, whom Bastone had met years earlier at a North African trading post, stepped out from behind the two leaders, his arms held wide. “Signore Ponzio, my friends, the Majos, and I welcome you to Tyterogaka!” “Bon jorn