Christopher Columbus and the Lost City of Atlantis Read online

  “Well,” the thief sighed, “that was anticlimactic.”

  Suddenly, a dazed figure rose from the cart. The Kizlar Agha. He looked around, saw his predicament, and started to laugh. Then the torch fell over, and he opened his mouth to scream.

  The night erupted like Vesuvius in Pompeii. The sultan’s prized galley exploded into a fireball, sending gouts of flame over the next two ships. As they burned, their fiery masts slammed into the decks of the neighboring ships. One by one, they set to fire until the night was lit like day.

  Near the breakwater, the thief was drawn from the water and dropped onto the deck of a caravel. A peg-legged man pushed through the hardened crew.

  “Cap’n,” the man bellowed. “Did you get it? Did you find the treasure?”

  Christopher Columbus pulled the lone bejeweled sword out and looked it over. “No. But I now know where it is.”

  Chapter One

  The carrack cut upriver at a languid pace.

  Columbus knew the waters of the Guadalquivir well enough to navigate it in the dark, but he appreciated the waning moon that lit their path. He saw it as an omen that God approved of his plan—or at least he was invested in the outcome. After all, God had shared more than a few laughs at Columbus’s expense over the years.

  He was worried about the crew. Since entering the Bay of Cádiz, they had been sighted and approached by two ships from the Spanish Navy. Only the Red Cross of the Order of Christ on their mainsail and the Spanish flag protruding from the gaff allowed them to pass unmolested. The absence of all other vessels had only increased the crew’s grumblings.

  In the eight months since Columbus had taken on the forty-four hardscrabble sailors from the port city of Palos, he’d yet to deliver on his promise of quick riches—or any riches for that matter. Instead, he’d jaunted around the Mediterranean on several unexplained—and increasingly dangerous—excursions, the last of which saw them brave the Aegean to travel to Istanbul. Columbus was a gifted enough navigator to evade Ottoman warships and the corsairs of the Knights of Rhodes, but his unwillingness to share mission details with anyone had left them all on edge. Now that they were returning to Spain, he feared some of the crew might jump ship; or worse, inform the monarch he wasn’t where he’d been ordered to wait.

  “The men are nervous,” Fanucio, the first mate, said as he hobbled up to the poop deck. “They’re askin’ if you got a plan.”

  “Of course, I have a plan,” Columbus said. “Have I ever not had a plan? Granted, not all plans have been en totalis. Some come about in the midst of things. They develop, like a fine wine.”

  “Or vinegar?”

  Columbus shrugged. “Vinegar has its uses too.”

  “Oh, indeed. My mother used it for pickling. ‘This is a fine pickle you got us into,’ she used to say.”

  “She said that?”

  “Possibly. She said a great deal of things when I weren’t around.”

  Columbus smiled faintly. Fanucio had been his second-in-command for nearly two decades. The man had a face like spoiled pudding, but he could always be counted on to put things into perspective. Whether that perspective made good sense was another matter.

  “Well, your mother’s preservation methods notwithstanding, you and the crew should rest assured. A plan is in place.”

  “Excellent. Shall I share it with the men?”

  “Not presently, no.”

  “Right.” The first mate hesitated. “And why is that?”

  “Because if they heard it, they’d likely leap over the gunwales and swim for shore.”

  “Ah, so it’s a regular plan. Understood.”

  “Just do that thing where you laugh as if you’ve heard the best news.”

  Fanucio hesitated to gauge his seriousness before he erupted in laughter, punctuated by several cuffs to his captain’s shoulder. Columbus thought he might have overdone it, but the ruse appeared to work. Tension on deck dissipated, and the crew returned to folding sails and securing the rigging.

  Columbus walked to the rail and leaned against it, taking in the shadowed plains of Andalusia. “We’re so close, my friend. If all goes well tonight, we should have everything we need to realize our dreams. Revelry, renown, and riches, the credo of adventurers everywhere.”

  Fanucio cleared his throat and looked away.

  “What?” Columbus frowned. “No good?”

  He’d been trying to come up with a catchphrase history might remember him by, but so far nothing had borne fruit.

  “Oh, it’s a fine saying, Cap’n. Only they all start with the same letter, don’t they?”

  “Yes. It’s called an alliteration.”

  “Ah-ha. And ain’t you the one always says being illiterate is bad?”

  Columbus rubbed his temples. “You’re right. A catchphrase needs to come about organically. I’ll keep working on it.”

  At that very moment, a shout rang out from the top of the mizzenmast. The ship was banking around a peninsula, and the sprawling city of Córdoba came into view on the port side. The riverbanks were lined with ships as far as the eye could see, lit by the unnaturally bright glow of a city in celebration.

  “So, the rumors are true,” Columbus whispered. “The Reconquista was a success. The Moors have been vanquished.”

  “So, it’s a party then?”

  “One for the ages, I suspect.”

  “It’s a party!” Fanucio shouted to the crew, who roared in response.

  “But not for us,” Columbus said.

  “Party’s been canceled!” Fanucio shouted. “Apologies.”

  The crew groaned.

  Columbus dashed for his cabin, where he stripped off his clothes and used a clean rag to wash himself. The trademark tha-clunk, tha-clunk of Fanucio’s peg leg preceded him.

  “Um, Cap’n? Since we’re here, might I run a quick errand?

  “What errand?”

  “Hortencia,” Fanucio stammered. “I’d like to see her.”

  “The whore? I thought she died.”

  “No. The doctor was able to save her. Most of her, anyway.”

  “This isn’t a good time. I need you to arrange for provisions. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

  “Wee problem there. See, last time we was here, we left the harbor master under questionable terms.”

  “What terms were those?”

  “We stiffed him.”

  Columbus winced. “Tell him he’ll have his due and more, but I want the ship turned southwest and ready to depart immediately upon my return. And you can send for Hortencia if you have the time. Just clean up once you’re done.”

  “Course. Might I ask why we’ll be needing to leave so quickly?”

  “Eager to get underway is all.”

  “So, you’re not planning a visit with the queen?”

  “I am definitely not planning a visit with the queen.”

  But, of course, they both knew he was lying.

  Fanucio was exchanging insults with the harbor master when Columbus strolled over the dock’s roughhewn planks, muscles bulging beneath a white doublet and gold-trimmed cape. He had chosen a red and blue striped cap with tassels to wear because it was fashionable, and it hid his identity. He could do nothing about his sword. The Galician driver eyed it as Columbus stepped into his carriage and said but two words: the Alcázar.

  As the gray andalusians clopped over the dusty cobbling of the Roman Bridge, Columbus took in the festive Spaniards who packed the zigzagging streets six or seven deep. Eight hundred years they had suffered under the yoke of the Moors. Now, they were free. Many waved flags, banners, and kerchiefs while others held oil lamps, all intent on bidding welcome to the dukes and duchesses, barons and baronesses, who had helped fund Spain’s victory.

  The odor of the mob was palpable, but when mixed with the food of street vendors and Spanish wine, it smelled of victory. Tattered troupers waded through the crowd, some playing bawdy tunes while others played hymns. It all blended into one inharmonious ca
cophony.

  As Columbus passed the Albolafia waterwheel that once raised the water to the caliph’s palace, he wondered how much would change for Spain in the years to come. While this was no longer a city of alabaster mosques with minarets of burnished gold, they were still part of the country’s heritage. Columbus hoped some of it would remain.

  The carriage let out behind the Alcázar gardens, which were widely known for their Mudejar splendor. Columbus had strolled them many times before, usually under the arm of some beautiful court maiden. Tonight, his shadow glided over the still reflecting pools alone.

  As he passed through the crowded entrance, the explorer found the castle bustling with Spain’s elite, dressed in the colorful draping attire of the day. Guests sipped libations and ate from banquet tables laden with a bounty for the ages. Succulent cuts of meat and wild game left a dizzying aroma in the air, as did the endless pastries, pies, and rice dishes that had Columbus salivating.

  When he had first arrived at court years before, he’d been viewed as an uneducated foreigner. It didn’t matter that he spoke more languages or had seen more of the world than the host of gentry. He was not Spanish. He was not nobility. And he had an annoying habit of bedding anything with a dress and a smile.

  As the years passed, he amassed some influential friends, but looking over the crowd, he knew without a doubt those days were past. Half the room wanted his head for failing to deliver on ventures they’d backed. The other half had daughters and wives, all of whom, not ironically, liked to wear dresses and smiles.

  Nobility. He hated the word and all it represented with a passion. What right does any man under God have cause to mark another as his lesser by birthright or bloodline alone? None that Columbus could reckon. To him, deeds defined one far more acutely than familial, political, or financial capital. Inheretence, whether in name and title, might bequeath some degree of power, but too often it was fleeting. The mark of true worth—of a life to be remembered—could only be christened by history. And history had a terrible appetite. Effort and desire could not feed it alone. One had to be bold. One had to be reckless. One had to have vision. And, a dash of crazy never hurt. Columbus had those in spades. He knew it. And one day the nobles of the world would too.

  But today was not that day. Today, Columbus needed anonymity. So, he stuck to the shadows as he slunk through the room, head and eyes down. Mum’s the word. He nearly made it to the great hall when someone stepped into his path. The man was slightly shorter than the Genoese, but broad through the shoulders with thick curly hair and a long, broken nose that lent his face a haughty petulance made worse when he smiled.

  “Christopher Columbus,” Amerigo Vespucci said, loud enough to draw the attention of those around him. “Late to the party, as usual. Tell us, what historical discovery accounts for your tardiness on this occasion?”

  Columbus knew Vespucci was a favorite of the king, but he found the man self-serving and unctuous. “Nothing historic, Signore Vespucci. I’ve merely found yet another explorer living in my shadow.”

  Someone sniggered, and Vespucci flushed.

  “But to his good fortune, God has granted him with an effete physique, so the occupation shouldn’t cause too much discomfort.”

  This time, several laughed. Vespucci’s face turned red. The man’s hand drifted toward his sword, but the realities of such a blunder must have struck him quickly because he clenched his fists and stepped close instead.

  “Your humor won’t avail you when el Gran Capitán and Signore de Cárdenas learn of your arrival. Or perhaps you’d like to meet with Grand Inquisitor Torquemada instead? I’m certain he would be quite interested to hear of your extracurricular—”

  Vespucci looked away for a moment. When he looked back, Columbus had vanished.

  Columbus continued through the crowded galleries. Just as he was passing the chapel, he felt a strange presence, as if someone was watching him. As his heightened instincts had saved his life numerous times over the years, he slowed long enough for a backward glance. There, he locked eyes with a short, hooded figure at the end of the hall. Columbus craned his head as people passed, only to find the figure gone.

  Under the vaulted ceiling of the audience chamber, Spain’s highest courtiers waited patiently to congratulate the king and queen on their victory at Granada.

  Ferdinand of Aragon was a dour figure—dark and brooding—but few underestimated his cunning and skill in battle. He wore a carmoisine velvet cloak lined with sable, and a golden crown fixed to his brow. He, too, was rumored to have quite an appetite for women, and yet he and the queen proved a perfect match to rule together.

  Queen Isabella of Castile was a woman of prudence, piety, and grace. Despite that, few spoke of her without mentioning her beauty. Unlike most Spaniards, she was fair skinned, with the strawberry blonde hair and blue-gray eyes that bespoke her Visigoth heritage. She was dressed in a bejeweled gown shimmering with pearls and looked more radiant than Columbus could ever remember. When her gaze locked onto his, her breath caught, though no one else seemed to notice.

  When Columbus reached the front of the line, the herald called, “Cristóbal Colón of Genoa!”

  A murmur ran through the room. Columbus bowed deeply before the king.

  “Ah, Columbus,” King Ferdinand said. “How is our intrepid explorer? Still dreaming of traversing the world in pursuit of fortune and glory?”

  “All my endeavors are undertaken for the glory of the crown, Highness.”

  King Ferdinand smiled perfunctorily. “No doubt. And the coin of our coffers. Should we assume by your presence here that your petition for a westward route to the Indies remains intact? Or do you have a more fantastical destination in mind?”

  Columbus was bending to kiss Queen Isabella’s ring and failed to hide his mischievous grin. “Well, there is one dark continent I’d like to revisit.”

  The queen inhaled nervously, but King Ferdinand was oblivious.

  “We shall receive you in the coming days,” he said. “Enjoy the festivities.”

  Columbus bowed again and broke away.

  Near the back of the room was a small alcove that hid a special door. As carefully as Columbus could, he opened it and slipped inside. Only as the door was closing did Columbus glimpse that same hooded figure watching him.

  A single torch cast the vacant hallway in a dusty glow of stone and mortar. A mosaic of Alfonso XI split the stairwell that led down to the Moorish baths in the basement and the royal bedchamber above. Columbus leaned back and waited.

  Less than half an hour later, the door opened a second time, and Queen Isabella slipped inside. She looked calm and serene as she approached the explorer, which was ironic considering how hard she slapped him.

  “I should have your head for such insolence!” she said.

  Columbus grinned. “Then you would be depriving the world of my second greatest asset.”

  Isabella fell on him with a passionate kiss. He took her in his arms and spun her against the stones, feeling the heat of her body as he pressed against her.

  “Two years I’ve waited,” she whispered, voice dripping with hunger.

  “Then I won’t torture you any longer.”

  Columbus took her by the hand and led her up the stairs.

  They lay panting in bed, their hunger fed but not yet sated. The sheets were strewn aside, and their bodies glistened with sweat. Even the cool air that crept in from the tower’s star-shaped vents failed to relieve them.

  “I swear,” Isabella whispered. “Had I not sworn to expel the Nasrid Dynasty from our lands, I would have fled with you ten years ago. Though you likely would have cast me off at the first port.”

  “A man only gives his heart once,” Columbus said.

  “Yes. And you gave yours to the sea long ago.”

  She’d missed the mark, but not by much. Still, Columbus heard something in her voice he’d never heard before. Pain. She should have been elated. Her devotion to God and Spain was absolute. I
t was a great rarity to find those in life who were willing to sacrifice everything for what they believed in, but so often those who did found at the end that they’d left nothing for themselves.

  “What is it?” Columbus asked.

  Maybe it was the tone with which he asked, but even in those dark surroundings, Columbus saw the queen’s eyes well.

  “I never told you this, but when my father passed, my half-brother Henry ascended to the throne. He was supposed to look after us—my mother, brother, and me. Instead, he sent us away to a very remote and very grim castle in Arévalo. The conditions were dire. We rarely had heat. At times, we went days without food. I might have fallen into despair had our mother not insisted we focus on God and education. As we had no formal teachers, we turned to the Franciscan monastery nearby. The monks lent us many books. Among my favorite stories were Aesop's Fables and the legends of King Arthur. But only one book changed my life forever. La Poncella de Francia, the story of Joan of Arc. Imagine being a wispy child whose only view of the world was seen through bars of a gilded cage. To read of a simple farm girl who—under word from God—rose to the heights of power to challenge the order of men. It became the model for my life. In all the days since, all I’ve ever really wanted to be was her.”

  “Sounds like a spirited girl. Is she available?”

  “She was burned at the stake before you were born.”

  “Well, I do like the smoldering types.”

  When she turned, he thought she might hit him, but she kissed him and laid her head on his chest instead. “You remind me of her. You, too, were born of common means, but look how far you’ve come. Self-educated. Driven. Fearless in a way so few are. Most men look upon the world and cower at its vastness—its boundless mysteries. You seek to reveal and master them. I envy you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “You are destined for great things.”

  If only she knew how much those words both strengthened and terrified him.