Interlude 1: The Implacable Falcon

The oil lamp swayed like a dying pulse in the kitchen. On the table, a piece of black bread and a meager broth; outside, Lisbon in 1690 breathed rain and hunger. Miguel Duarte, who was about to transform from adolescent to man that very night, already had hands hardened by work, but his gaze still held that dangerous mixture of contained rage and caution known only to those who have learned to keep silent.

The door burst open. His father came in staggering, drunk, with reddened eyes and his shirt half unbuttoned. He grabbed his wife by the arm without even looking at her and dragged her toward the bedroom. The slam of the door echoed through the whole house.

The sobbing began at once. Then the slaps. Each blow made the walls tremble as if they were made of paper. Miguel remained seated, the table knife in his hand. He stared at the crooked blade shining in the lamplight. He swallowed, but not fear: it was rage that was building in his chest. He stood up without hurry. He walked to the bedroom door and opened it. The scene burned his eyes: his mother bent over, his father out of control, spitting words full of contempt. He was crushing one of her breasts with one hand just to cause her pain, while he penetrated her roughly and clumsily.

—Have you come to learn, boy? Stay and watch, so you’ll know how to mount a mare.

It was the final provocation. Miguel did not plan; he acted with the same urgency with which a fire ignites. The table knife tightened in his hand. There was no cold calculation, no spectacle: it was the implosion of years of humiliation and fear compressed into an abrupt gesture. The short knife, with its wooden handle, sank into his father’s neck. The man barely had time to let out a hoarse grunt before collapsing. Miguel dropped the knife and muttered through clenched teeth:

—I’d rather stick a pig.

His mother ran to her husband, screaming what had he done, that he was a murderer. Miguel did not answer. He left the house with a steady stride, without looking back. He knew where to go. He walked to the dark docks, where sailors were still loading barrels by torchlight. The brigantine San Jerónimo was sailing at dawn for Cape Verde. Miguel knew every corner of the ship; he worked on it. He hid in a space in the hold, behind some boxes of salted goods. He curled up there in the half-light while the men closed the hatch. The creak of ropes and the dull thud of casks lulled him. When the sun rose, the ship had already left Lisbon behind. Covered in cold sweat and silence, he knew he would never return.

The following years were a brutal apprenticeship. Hunger, grief, and patience. Miguel survived because he learned to watch, to work, and not to ask. He rose from job to job, deck to deck; on one of those slave ships, his character and discipline earned him the respect of many and promotion to boatswain. He never justified his role: he knew that taking part in the ch...