Christopher Columbus and the Lost City of Atlantis Read online

  Christopher Columbus

  And the Lost City of Atlantis

  E.J. Robinson

  Contents

  (Illuminati Press)

  Also by E.J. Robinson

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgments

  Christopher Columbus

  And the Lost City of Atlantis

  Copyright © 2018 Erik J. Robinson

  http://erikjamesrobinson.com

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  (Illuminati Press)

  Edited by Jessica Holland

  Cover design by Jordan Grimmer

  Also by E.J. Robinson

  The New Chronicles of Robinson Crusoe

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  For Ric

  Foreword

  Growing up in the latter days of the twentieth century, I was taught like so many generations before me that Christopher Columbus was a hero who had discovered America. Turns out neither of those things are true. The Americas had, of course, previously been visited by the Vikings, and possibly others. And it’s tough to “discover” a place that’s inhabited by a million or so indigenous people. It’s also impossible to describe any actions as heroic when they include subjugation and genocide.

  So why write a story with Columbus as the protagonist? Two reasons. First, Columbus was well on his way to earning that heroic title up until his second journey to the Americas. After all, he had risen from humble means to gain the audience of kings and queens of Europe. He had also earned the honor of being the first to traverse the mighty Atlantic, something no seafarer before him would have ever dared dream possible.

  Secondly, as Columbus’s audacious journey in 1492 brought European expansionism west, it also ushered in a wave of explorers that would fully map out the seven continents and, by extension, the rest of the known world. In less than a century, the globe would become much smaller place, and with it, the myths that had entertained and frightened mankind for centuries would slowly begin to ebb away.

  Christopher Columbus and the Lost City of Atlantis is what might have happened had Columbus taken a left in his journey instead of a right. If fabled places like Atlantis had truly existed, Columbus was such a man who might have gone in search of them, for all men have wanderlust in their blood. They dream of finding new frontiers to explore and new secrets to uncover. And if Columbus had had more adventurer in his blood than explorer, he might have found that his ultimate legacy lay in the past as much as in the future.

  For more information on Columbus and his journeys, I recommend reading Admiral of the Sea: A Life of Christopher Columbus by Samuel Eliot Morison, The Last Voyage of Columbus: Being the Epic Tale of the Great Captain’s Fourth Expedition, including Accounts of Swordfight, Mutiny, Shipwreck, Gold, War, Hurricane, and Discovery by Martin Dugard, or consult your local library.

  EJR

  August, 2018

  Minnesota, USA

  Prologue

  A burgeoning contingent of Janissary guards closed in on the thief from the courtyard below. Hunkering down beneath a minaret, he paused to catch his breath as his heart clamored like a butter churner thick with fat. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten turned around, although that sometimes happened when a job went south and hordes of armed soldiers made it their personal mission to hunt you down and slice you chin to cock. He’d never considered himself a particularly greedy man, but the truth was he was partial to both as long as he could remember. He’d hate to lose them now.

  Unfortunately, the thief could hear guards scaling the roof back near the palace kitchens. And more hustled by below, as they rushed to cut off any possible exodus in front of him. He was lost. His odds of escape were dwindling. Without a doubt, he was in serious trouble.

  Most men in his position might have withered there or made some crucial mistake. But he knew he was at his best when things were at their worst. The thought emboldened him as he looked around. Finally, he saw it. Between the trees to his left—the steeple of the Justice Tower, the smell of honey and cypress carrying in from the Bosporus beyond. And to his right, the clanging of markers bobbing in the Marmara. Just outside the breakwater, his ship and crew waited.

  Relief flooded him. His escape was all but assured.

  With a grin, the thief bolted to his right, only to feel a moment of delayed surprise when he crashed into the stained-glass dome and a flicker of dread as he plummeted into the shadows below.

  Glass showered the darkened room as the thief hurtled through a canopy and landed with surprise in a sea of pillows as shrill screams assaulted his ears. Someone moved quickly to light a hanging lamp. As his vision returned, he saw he was surrounded by a dozen near-naked figures swathed in silk, their perfume infusing the air.

  Dread and excitement grew in unison as he realized where he was.

  The Imperial Harem.

  Among the scantily clad beauties, one particularly ferocious and exotic woman stepped toward him, hand on hip, eyes lit with fire. The thief recognized her. The Efendi Kadin, the sultan’s favored wife.

  “You…” she stuttered, eyes wild. “You…came back!” She rushed into the thief’s arms. This drew a wave of giggles from the other consorts, who were obviously aware of the dalliance between the two—and the cost if they were caught. But, when in Rome…or Istanbul as the case was.

  The Efendi Kadin’s kiss came with a whispering of sweet words into the thief’s ear as his eyes flitted around for sign of an exit. Then he heard the door to the outer chamber thrown open, followed by the rumble of heavy footfalls.

  The sultan appeared, surrounded by four armed eunuchs. To the thief, the sultan was a sight. His lustrous kaftan was rumpled. The aigrette of heron plumes of his colossal turban was askew. His voice was thick with sleep. He looked over the women as they salaamed in unison, touching hearts and foreheads before bowing.

  “What was that noise?” the sultan asked, blind to the thief.

  The consorts’ gazes turned to the Efendi Kadin, who snatched an arrow off the marbled floor. “This broke the window above, my Padishah!”

  The sultan took the arrow, looked up at the shattered dome, and heard the furor outside. “Assassins.”

  With that single word, the eunuchs drew their halberds, pausing only after the sultan raised a hand. He had noticed blood on the floor. “Someone is injured!”

  “It is nothing, lord of life,” the Efendi Kadin said nervously. “A nick from the glass.” “Which of my doves has been hurt? Is it you? You?”

  Each woman was asked in turn. Eac
h shook their head and receded one by one, until only a single woman was left. She was much taller than the others, her silk garments stretched tight over her large torso. She looked down, noticing the trail led straight to her. She swallowed.

  The sultan frowned. “I do not recognize you.”

  The Efendi Kadin stepped forward nervously. “A new odalisque. Taken at sea this month past. Very shy, heart of my heart. I will see to her injury. She is beneath your concern.”

  The sultan dismissed the thought with a wave. He eyed the tall girl and licked his lips, entranced by those gray eyes peering out between veils.

  “Don’t be frightened, child,” he said. “You are in very good hands.”

  The sultan reached one of those hands out and the girl playfully slapped it away.

  The sultan laughed, surprised. “Spirited.”

  He reached out again. She slapped his hand away again. The sultan frowned. He reached out a third time, and when his hand was slapped away again, he slapped the girl across the face. To his astonishment, the girl slapped him back. Everyone gasped. The sultan was stunned. He yanked down her veil, and his mouth fell open as he recognized the thief.

  “Evening, sire,” the thief said, “apologies for this.”

  The thief grabbed the sultan, taking him as a shield, as he set a golden, bejeweled sword to the sultan’s throat. The eunuchs froze in their tracks.

  “That sword,” the sultan cried, more concerned with it than its present location. “You stole it from my treasury. Give it back!”

  “Impossible, I’m afraid. I need it. But if it’s any consolation, I left all your other valuables unmolested.” The Efendi Kadin cleared her throat and raised an eyebrow. The thief shrugged, chagrined. “Materially speaking.”

  The sultan sneered. “I knew you were dishonorable the moment I set eyes on you. You’re nothing but a common thief!”

  “Actually, I’m an exceptional thief,” the thief said. “Though I consider myself more of an adventurer really. Thievery is merely a welcome perk of my calling.”

  “Release me now or, Allah help you, my guards will strip your bones from your flesh.”

  “These fruitless four?” The thief laughed. “Hardly worth the effort.”

  The thief pushed the sultan aside, ready to fight when the eunuchs suddenly parted, revealing a giant of a man. Ebony skin, muscled physique, red turban, and the biggest kilij sword ever seen. Ever. This was the Kizlar Agha, the head black eunuch.

  “You were saying?” the sultan taunted.

  The thief swallowed, quickly requiring his sultan shield. Outside, he heard more voices.

  Several shadows appeared through the broken dome. Things were going from bad to worse. “Your prospects grow dim,” the sultan mocked.

  “Indeed. Let’s lighten things up.”

  The thief swatted a hanging lantern with his sword, sending a spray of oil and fire over the eunuchs. As smoke and screams filled the air, he ran across a short table and dove through the arabesque screen of a low window.

  He landed hard with a splash. Wincing, he rubbed his backside, which was wet with water from the Bath of the Sultan and Queen Mother. “A pool,” he muttered. “It was supposed to be a pool.”

  Approaching torches drove him from the bath, through the Courtyard of the Concubines and Queen Mother, past an empty sentry post, and through the Aviary Gate into the second courtyard. Back through the figs, toward the wall, where he could almost taste saltwater and his freedom. Nothing could stop him now.

  Except the dozen guards atop the wall. And their crossbows. Funny how crossbows had that effect.

  He was racing back toward the palace now. Guards behind him. Guards to the north. Guards to the south. The thief saw the shape of a building, its two doors cracked back. He ran inside, disappearing in the darkness as two Janissary slammed the doors, trapping him within.

  The thief listened to the guards’ cheer. The falcons cornered their quarry. They clamored over who would kill the man and earn the sultan’s praise. Maybe one or two of them would even earn wives from his harem. Then one particularly observant Janissary among them called for silence before uttering an odd word. The thief knew little of their language, but he recognized that word. In part because he wrote it on his map. Also, because it was written above the doors he entered seconds before. Armory.

  The doors were blown open by the horse-drawn cart, shocking the guards on the other side. A few dove out of the way, but more stood gaping at the sight of the thief standing high atop the cart, cracking the reins with one hand while the other lit the fuse of a grenade from a standing torch. He lobbed it over his shoulder. Janissary fled as the blast echoed through the courtyard, usurped only by the thief’s rebellious cry. Now, he was adventuring!

  A rumble to the east quickly tempered his spirits as something emerged from the trees. The sultan’s cavalry! The thief gulped. Too much adventure.

  Reins snapping, horse frothing, the thief tossed grenades as fast as he could pluck and light them. Just as he passed a pavilion, he heard a thump, and the horse cried. The thief looked up to find the Kizlar Agha standing on the animal’s back, his kilij already hurtling down. The thief pivoted, narrowly avoided the blade as it split the seat. The thief kicked the man hard between the legs. The eunuch didn’t even flinch. The thief shrugged. “Had to be sure.”

  As the Kizlar Agha tore his kilij free, the thief drew the bejeweled sword from its scabbard. Blades clashed as the horse galloped madly across the lumpy earth, both men fighting to keep their feet as well as their heads. The Kizlar Agha slashed with strength. The thief parried with dexterity. The cavalry closed in.

  The horse bounded over a low rise, and both men fell. The Kizlar Agha landed on top of the thief. As his heavy hands wrapped around the thief’s throat, he saw the torch was broken, the flames already warming the scores of fuses. When he reached to push it back, the thief jabbed a thumb into his eye. The Kizlar Agha howled, grabbing a hold of the thief again. When the torch fell a second time, the thief pushed it back. This routine continued between strikes, gouges, and a runaway horse hurtling madly through the night.

  High above the fray, the thief heard the shouts of the Janissaries manning the Imperial Gate. Truth is, he would too if an out-of-control horse and cart was lumbering in his direction. On one hand, the guards knew they’d be executed if he escaped. On the other hand, the cart was full of ordinance that would kill them anyway, so he was optimistic they’d open the gate.

  Inside the cart, the Kizlar Agha managed to wrap both hands around the thief’s neck, squeezing until darkness started to close in. Then, the Kizlar Agha looked up to see the half-opened doors of the gate. He raised his arms, but it was too late. The violent crash splintered the doors, shaking the very foundation of the Imperial Gate. For the briefest moment, the Kizlar Agha loosened his grip on the thief’s neck, allowing the thief to clobber him with a grenade to the head. As the Kizlar Agha fell unconscious, the thief pushed him off, grabbed the bejeweled sword, and leaped for the injured horse, slashing its remaining harness and rig before hastening away from the palace. With a final look over his shoulder, the thief saw the cavalry rein to a stop behind the debris and the aimless cart rolling slowly forward with the unconscious Kizlar Agha inside.

  The thief and horse sped down the winding, cobbled pathway that cut back along the cliffside and down to the mouth of the long quay. At the very end was a gleaming Turkish galley, the finest ship in the sultan’s fleet. A dozen more like it were berthed along the shore, running all the way to the horn. But as the thief slapped the horse away, he ran not for one of those ships, but for a dinghy tied off underneath. His ship was waiting in the dark near the breakwater, several hundred feet away. At least he hoped it was still there. With his crew, anything was possible.

  As his fingers worked to untie his own knot, the thief finally let out a giggle. He couldn’t believe he succeeded. Granted, the palace was on fire, and he was nearly killed by fall, by spear, by sword, by arrow, by exp
losive blast, and by the hands of the largest, fruitless Nubian he’d ever seen, but outside of that, things went pretty much according to plan. He stopped to offer a quick prayer. “In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, I do offer my humblest gratitude for your continued support. And, Lord, while I know pride is a cardinal sin, I would like to point out that a reputation bolstered by such a night’s endeavors could go a long way to furthering the success of my—uh, I mean, our—long-term ambitions. Goals. Aspirations. Anyway, just a suggestion. In your heavenly name I pray, Amen.”

  Pleased with himself, the thief was about to return to the knot when he heard a clatter back near the shore. Up the cobbled slope, the horseless cart appeared, winding its way down the road, bumping along the outer walls, before it settled atop the hill leading down to the quay, the upstanding torch flickering in the wind.

  “Then again, I’ve always said, anonymity is highly underrated.”

  The cart crested the hill and picked up speed as it thundered for the quay.

  The thief cried out as his fingers desperately worked the rope. As the horseless cart bounded on the quay, he cursed and dove into the water, swimming away as fast as he could. He was fifty yards out when he looked back to see the horseless cart slowing down as it approached the end of the quay and the sultan’s prized galley. At the very edge, it came to a halt.