IN THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER.
["I know," Soca agreed, pressing his lips together. "The agriculture overseer mentioned yesterday that high-yield crops wouldn't require as much raw land to sustain us, but as mayor, I want to be certain. I need surpluses, not just short-term survival. The problem is that I don't know what logistical measure to take to cover this enormous shortage of hands."
The trade overseer leaned forward; his eyes gleaming with the sharpness of a newly discovered opportunity.
"Mayor, how about this? We could lease part of our new agricultural lands directly to the local tribes. We provide them with seeds, water, and tools, and we formally hire them as our labor force and even as our own perimeter security."]
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Year 11 of the SuaChie Calendar, Second Month (April 1493).
Desert Oasis City (Dakar, Senegal), Guanza Quyca (Africa).
The scent of freshly waxed mahogany and the ceaseless murmur of ten thousand souls filtering through the wide windows were tangible proof of their triumph.
Two years had passed since those first uncertain meetings under thatched roofs, and now, in the second month of Leader Chuta's 11th birthday, Soca presided from his spacious personal office in the newly inaugurated Council House.
The building, a majestic work of fine stonemasonry and interlocking beams, stood as the bureaucratic heart of an unrecognizable Desert Oasis City, already equipped with the same complex infrastructure that characterized the great metropolises of the Suaza Kingdom.
Soca leaned back in his upholstered armchair, allowing himself a moment of stillness. A smile of profound satisfaction spread across his face, weathered by the African sun. He was immensely proud of what he had built with his own hands and his tireless diplomacy.
However, as he watched the orange dust dancing in the shafts of light, a pang of nostalgia tightened his chest.
He missed the sharp, freezing air of his native high mountains. He longed for the dense fog that crowned the peaks, the thick woolen garments, and above all, the relief of walking down streets where every passerby spoke his mother tongue without the need for intermediaries.
But the sacrifice was worth every silent tear.
Under his new investiture as Chancellor—a title that had eclipsed that of a simple mayor—the influence of the Suaza Kingdom had spilled like fresh water over the parched earth, causing dozens of allied villages and small cities to blossom around them.
Of all his achievements, none filled him with as much pride as having laid the foundations of Gold River City (Saint-Louis, Senegal) by the mighty river to the north.
His strategic and builder's mind had orchestrated the masterstroke: with direct permission from Leader Chuta, and fueled by the reports of his spies and merchants infiltrating neighboring kingdoms, Soca had identified the Serer.
They were a highly populous and hardworking people, suffocating under the yoke of the vassal kingdoms of the decadent Wolof Empire.
Using his authority as Chancellor, Soca offered them protection, fertile lands, and dignified treatment. He drew them into the warm halo of the Suaza Kingdom, masterfully integrating the rich Serer culture into the practices of Desert Oasis City.
The result was a massive injection of loyal new citizens, accompanied by the region's most expert farmers. Thanks to them, and an audacious economic cooperation forged with the neighboring Waalo Kingdom, Gold River City had risen from nothing to dominate the northern basin.
Despite the urban glory, the wind carried new storms.
The previous year had marked an irremediable turning point: formal contact with the Europeans.
Those "strangers from the north" the locals spoke of so often had materialized their imposing galleons on the shores. The Suaza machinery had not lagged behind, responding with the strategic purchase of an island near Desert Oasis City and the exceedingly rapid construction of Guanzauba City.
Maritime trade exploded, enriching everyone, but the clinking of gold drew the predatory gaze of the Portuguese.
Soca frowned, remembering the arrogant European emissaries. According to them, they were the only kingdom in the entire world with the right to trade in Guanza Quyca, or as they insisted on calling the region, Guiné, the "Land of Black People."
They justified themselves by waving rolls of parchment covered in wax seals that they called "papal bulls." Soca could not comprehend the barbaric logic of these people; it seemed absurd to him that a distant spiritual leader, some "Pope" who had never set foot on that sand nor drunk from its rivers, believed he had the authority to give away entire continents and monopolize the seas.
Snorting to wave away his irritation, Soca opened the top drawer of his desk. He extracted a thick sheet of paper adorned with elegant calligraphy. It was a logistical report containing the eccentric special requests of Turey, the betrothed of the Son of Heaven, Chuta.
The future consort requested the capture and shipment of exotic animal specimens for study and analysis, although Soca knew it was really about keeping them as pets. After all, before leaving, he had seen for himself how the most territorial felines melted at Turey's feet.
Just as he began reading the requirements for crating spotted felines, three sharp, hurried knocks on the oak door broke his concentration.
"Come in," Soca ordered, leaving the document on the table.
A chancery aide entered at a brisk pace, stopping before the desk with a slight bow. His face reflected evident tension.
"Chancellor Soca, forgive the interruption," the young man said, his breathing slightly ragged. "The harbor lookouts have just lit the daytime warning beacons. Another Portuguese ship is approaching our waters."
Soca's frown deepened, carving furrows of concern into his forehead. He clenched his fists on the desk.
"That is the third one to anchor directly in our city this month," he muttered, his voice heavy with a grim premonition. He stood slowly, the fabric of his consular tunic dragging slightly, and walked toward the large window overlooking the bay.
The aide followed him with his eyes, noting the unusual stiffness in the shoulders of the man who had built everything around them.
"Is something terribly wrong, sir?" the boy asked, genuinely troubled by the sudden darkening of his leader's expression.
Soca rested a hand on the wooden window frame. In the distance, on the turquoise waters of the harbor, the formidable silhouettes of the Suaza warships patrolled tirelessly, protecting the coast with the banner of the Sun and Moon fluttering high above.
"I worry about the rot, boy," Soca replied, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "I worry about the corrosive influence those Portuguese might exert in our region. I know the precedents. I know perfectly well how their intrigues and greed poisoned the roots of the Wolof Empire until it fell into decadence. It has cost me blood, sweat, and years of diplomacy to calm these waters and build a prosperous home. I will not allow them to destroy our foundations, nor bring their filthy conflicts to our doors."
The aide took a step forward, adopting a soft, conciliatory tone to soothe his chancellor's tactical anxiety.
"With all due respect, sir, I believe we shouldn't alarm ourselves excessively just yet. This morning's intelligence reports indicate that the commercial and imperialist focus of these European vessels is heavily concentrated on the kingdoms of Sine and Saloum, much further south... We have barely interacted with those borders."
Soca turned his head slightly, listening intently as the young man continued.
"Furthermore, Chancellor, we must remember our own alliances. In the worst-case scenario, if the Portuguese attempted to blockade or threaten us, the deep military and commercial friendship you have forged with the colossal Songhai Empire in the continent's interior would serve as our shield. They could mobilize resources to our aid at a moment's notice."
Soca turned his gaze back to the ocean, watching as the unmistakable square sail of the foreign ship cut through the waves, slowly forcing its way into his domain. The boy's logic was impeccable, but his instinct warned him that the most destructive storms always began with a simple, deceiving breeze.
4 years later.
Year 15 of the SuaChie Calendar, Second Month (April 1497).
Timbuktu, Songhai Empire, Guanza Quyca (Africa).
The silence that reigned in the vast library of the University of Sankore was of a different nature than the one Soca knew. It was not the tense silence of an ambush, nor the expectant stillness of the open sea; it was a thick silence, heavy with the weight of thousands of scrolls, the scent of dried ink, and clay baked by the unforgiving Timbuktu sun.
Thousands of kilometers away from the coasts bathed by the Dawn Ocean breeze, Soca walked slowly between the tall, dark wooden shelves, the hem of his consular tunic trailing lightly on the floor.
He was far from his beloved "daughter," Desert Oasis City, the metropolis he had watched rise from its very foundations on the sands of the western coast.
Now, his diplomatic duties had dragged him into the very heart of the Songhai Empire, to one of its most vital and vibrant cities after its capital, Gao.
As his weathered builder's fingers absentmindedly brushed the leather spines of some astronomy volumes, his mind drifted back in time, evaluating the colossal web of events that had brought him here.
Much had happened since the dizzying commercial growth of the Suaza Kingdom's cities and territories on the continent of Guanza Quyca. The initial influx of Portuguese galleons, which had once robbed him of sleep and made him foresee an imminent war, had taken an unexpected turn.
Soca smiled to himself in the gloom of the library.
Thanks to the visionary trade treaties orchestrated from the other side of the world by Leader Chuta, and the negotiating astuteness of the famous merchant Chewa—who prowled the island cities of the Dawn Ocean weaving webs of influence—the European presence was no longer a lethal threat.
The haughty Portuguese captains, who had once waved their papal bulls demanding exclusivity over the world, had been reduced—through overwhelming Suaza economic and logistical superiority—to mere frequent customers of their busy ports. Especially in Gold River City.
Soca remembered vividly how, years ago, he and his aides had watched from the walls the feverish greed that disfigured the faces of those European captains upon seeing the constant flow of gold coming down from the interior of the Nil Gana (Senegal River), as the Saharan merchants called it.
Any other empire would have closed its borders out of paranoia, unleashing a bloodbath. But Soca had been smarter.
He had cemented Gold River City with the unwavering military and political support of the Waalo Kingdom, ensuring that military disputes born of commercial jealousy would never touch their gates.
True to his homeland's directives, he implemented a policy of absolute economic freedom. This openness equally favored the mysterious Saharan merchants from the interior and the Portuguese, creating a mutual dependency that snuffed out any spark of war before it could ignite.
Soca turned down a corridor illuminated by high skylights, and his attention was caught by scrolls displaying complex engineering calculations. Those strokes reminded him of his greatest logistical triumph.
After almost two years of exhausting labor, failures, adaptations of local wood, and sweat, the Suaza shipyards in Guanza Quyca had finally achieved the unthinkable: producing full-scale Tequendama I-class ships.
The construction of these floating fortresses radically transformed the balance of power. The maritime and coastal defenses, including the young Europauba City and Guanzauba City, were now insurmountable walls for any European fleet that dared look upon their territories with intentions of conquest.
That temporary naval monopoly had generated acute political friction with their closest allies, the kingdoms of Cayor and Waalo, who viewed the growing Suaza military might in their waters with suspicion. But Soca, exercising his role as Chancellor with an enviable political dexterity, had mitigated the crisis by selling them a strictly limited number of vessels per year.
However, the game had escalated. The gigantic Songhai Empire, their most formidable land ally, didn't just want to buy ships; they had begun to exert diplomatic pressure to acquire the structural "knowledge."
They desired to produce their own heavy vessels to dominate the immense Isa Ver (Niger River) and secure their trade routes to the southern coasts.
Soca, acutely aware that sharing military engineering meant crossing a delicate line, had repeatedly consulted the central government across the ocean. After months of exchanging letters with Chuta himself, the Kingdom had finally granted approval for the technological exchange.
It was precisely because of that monumental concession that Soca had been withering away under Timbuktu's dry heat for just over a month. He was awaiting Askia Muhammad, the powerful ruler of the empire, who had undertaken a long, ostentatious pilgrimage to Mecca, and whose arrival was imminent.
Soca paused in a section of the library dedicated to applied mathematics. He was absorbed in studying a scroll with geometric diagrams that reminded him of the pulleys in his shipyards when the soft brush of fabric against the stone floor alerted him.
A member of the ulama, the religious and legal scholars who governed the city's intellectual life, approached him with measured, silent steps. The elder, acting as an intermediary for the court, wore an immaculate white tunic and bore an expression of serene reverence.
"Peace be upon you, Chancellor Soca," the scholar murmured, bowing his head slightly, his voice echoing barely above a whisper so as not to shatter the sanctity of the place. "I come to bring you the news that the eastern wind has deposited at our gates. Askia, the al-haji and Caliph of the Songhai Empire, has finally returned from the holy land. His caravan has entered the city."
Soca blinked, carefully rolling up the geometric scroll. His pragmatic mind, alien to the complexities of the Islamic faith, clashed head-on with the terminology. He frowned, trying to decipher the political weight of those words.
"I appreciate the news, venerable scholar," Soca replied, keeping his tone respectful and measured. "But I confess that my knowledge of your traditions is limited. What exactly do these new titles of al-haji and Caliph mean? And, most importantly for the matters that concern us... will I be able to pay my respects and discuss the shipyard treaty soon?"
The elder of the ulama offered a patient, almost indulgent smile, clasping his hands in front of his chest.
"It means, noble foreigner, that our ruler is not just a king of lands and armies. By being recognized as Caliph by the honorable descendants of the Prophet in distant lands, his authority is now blessed by the divine. It represents the beginning of a prosperous, incontestable, and sacred reign in the eyes of all believers." The man paused, letting the spiritual weight of the revelation settle in the dust-laden air, before adding in a much earthlier tone. "The Caliph is perfectly aware of your patience and your presence in Timbuktu, Chancellor. However, the duties of his investiture and the celebrations will require his attention. It will take a few days for him to catch up on state affairs before he can receive you in audience."
…
A week later.
The dry, dusty air of Timbuktu seemed to have grown as dense as lead. Soca waited in the vast corridors of the palace Askia used during his stays in the empire's intellectual metropolis.
That same morning, the Suaza Chancellor had been forced to witness and participate in the solemn, overwhelming ceremony where members of the ulama heaped praise upon the newly decorated ruler, celebrating his successful hajj to Mecca with excessive pomp and investing him with the highest titles the Islamic faith could bestow upon a monarch.
To Soca, whose mind measured the value of things in tons of grain, hours at the forge, and the solidity of foundations, such an ostentatious display bordered on financial absurdity. He had it on good authority that such a pilgrimage had left the empire's coffers staggering and severely indebted, despite the colossal resources with which the sovereign had departed. Nevertheless, the rules of diplomacy demanded silence; he respected every rite with impeccable composure, keeping his opinions locked tightly away.
As the sky began to turn a deep violet hue through the tall arched windows, heralding the fall of evening, a liveried servant briskly crossed the courtyard and stopped before him. His private meeting with the Caliph was to take place at that very moment.
Soca followed the emissary in silence. Before setting foot in the anteroom of the meeting hall, the imperial guards stopped him. He was subjected to a rigorous search for the third time in less than an hour; the soldiers' rough, suspicious hands patted down every fold of his consular tunic, searching for any hidden blade with a meticulousness that bordered on offense.
Soca held his breath, keeping his muscles relaxed through sheer discipline, acutely aware that he was treading on sacred and volatile ground.
Upon crossing the threshold of the main hall, the instructions were blunt: he was ordered to kneel on a series of cushions placed on the floor, arranged several levels below the dais where the monarch waited. Soca complied with the protocol with studied elegance, bowing his torso and greeting the ruler with the sacred titles the court demanded.
From atop the dais, Askia gazed down at him with renewed haughtiness. His voice, deep and distant, denoted the immense superiority he felt following his spiritual consecration.
"Envoy of the Suaza," the Caliph greeted, dispensing with preambles and lukewarm courtesies, getting straight to the point. "The Songhai Empire requires the greatness and blessing of Allah on all its fronts. It is time for you to hand over the detailed blueprints and the secret knowledge of your great ships. You will do so as an offering for the prosperity of the empire, with no demands for payment."
Soca kept his eyes lowered, fixed on the golden threads of the rug, but his voice resonated through the chamber with imperturbable calm, entirely devoid of fear.
"It is a generous request in its intent, Your Highness, but materially impossible to fulfill just like that," Soca replied with absolute firmness. "The designs of the Tequendama are the vital pillar of our sovereignty and defense on these coasts. We cannot simply part with that knowledge. However... the Suaza Kingdom is always willing to consider concessions and adjustments, provided that the commercial relationship and sincerity between both nations remain on equal footing."
A murmur of indignation sliced through the air. One of Askia's closest aides took a step forward, his face flushed with fury, unable to contain the insult.
"Insolent!" the advisor bellowed, pointing a trembling finger at Soca. "You address the Caliph of the believers! You should kiss the floor of this palace and feel grateful that His Majesty has not ordered the immediate confiscation of your coastal cities."
Soca did not blink. He did not raise his voice or look at the subordinate with defiance; he simply maintained his posture, waiting for the echo of the outburst to dissipate against the adobe walls.
Askia, for his part, remained silent, observing the Chancellor with cold curiosity, allowing the tension to fill the room without reprimanding his man.
"We are not vassals to any foreign throne, Excellency," Soca replied, his voice clear, measuring every word without hesitation. "The Suaza people have not crossed the ocean to bend the knee or to submit to unilateral demands. We have come to trade, to learn, and to protect what is ours. It deeply saddens me that a relationship built with such effort and mutual trust is suddenly tarnished by unchecked ambitions, political pressure, and the erosion of a given word."
The words hung in the charged atmosphere. On Soca's lips echoed a subtle resonance, a veiled allusion to the ethical principles and scriptures that spoke of justice and inviolable pacts.
Askia, a man deeply learned in sacred law, caught the reference instantly. His mind, accustomed to the blind adulation of his court, paused to weigh the foreigner's dignity. Far from being offended, his intellectual appreciation for the Suaza Kingdom and for this man in the sober tunic grew in an unexpected way.
The Caliph raised a hand, nipping any further choleric intervention from his aide in the bud. Then, leaning slightly forward, he stared intently at Soca.
"My words have been misinterpreted, Chancellor," Askia admitted in a tone that sought to restore diplomatic balance, softening his previous harshness. "It is not my desire to sever the ties that bind our peoples. But you must understand that the weight of my new titles and the security of the empire demand that I project a position of absolute firmness before the world."
Soca bowed his head in a gesture of respectful acquiescence.
"I perfectly understand your position, Caliph," he replied diplomatically, his expression softening. "And it is for that reason I can assure you that the very leader of our kingdom, Chuta, has already given his approval for a framework of technological and commercial exchange that will equitably benefit both nations."
From that moment on, the atmosphere in the hall changed radically. The initial tension dissipated to make way for political pragmatism.
The private meeting stretched on for several more hours, fluidly addressing general topics while they waited for the negotiating teams from both sides to iron out the technical and tributary details in the coming days.
They even ventured into discussions of religious matters and possible joint military alliance strategies to deter the incursions of the aggressive Saadi tribes from the north.
Fortunately for Soca, the Songhai sovereign proved to be as lucid, perceptive, and wise as the merchants in the souks had proclaimed. Thanks to this, any potential dispute was channeled and resolved exclusively through the eloquence of dialogue and mutual understanding... at least for now.
…
Days later, the solitude of the room granted to Soca in the official residence of Timbuktu was broken by a sharp, familiar sound.
A firm knock echoed on the wooden door.
Soca looked up from his blueprints. The door opened to admit an official messenger of the Suaza Kingdom, who, breathing heavily from the journey, bowed deeply and placed on the desk an envelope sealed with the official wax of the central government.
Soca dismissed the emissary with a brief wave of his hand. With fingers that were firm yet quickened by curiosity, he broke the seal and unfolded the document. His eyes eagerly scanned the first few lines, deciphering the message sent from across the ocean.
As he finished reading, a deep exhale, heavy with months of accumulated tension, escaped his lips. A genuine, warm, and rare smile crossed his face as he murmured to himself, his eyes fixed on the western horizon.
"Finally... finally I can go home."
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone. First, as always, I wanted to thank you for your support, even during the times when I couldn't write or publish chapters.
Nothing bad happened to me; it's just that work and some personal matters have kept me tied up. I've even had to put a book I was writing on hold due to a lack of time.
Unfortunately, I can't promise regular updates like before, though—as you know—I will do my absolute best.
As for the content of this chapter:
Everything has been fact-checked, as always. However, I'll admit that my weak point lies in the rituals practiced during that era and the nature of the negotiations that took place. That is why the intervention by Askia's aide might come across as somewhat Western or even clichéd.]