The End of 1485 AD, Voyage of Death

November 1485, the middle reaches of the Congo River, more than a thousand li from where the great river entered the sea, Gombe Matadi. In the Kongo language, the name meant "the land of walking on rocks."

Surging rapids rushed down from the highlands upstream, battering the steep banks and scouring the dense rainforest. White pelicans beat their wings, swooping up and down over the blue-green river, hunting plump river fish. Black swarms of mosquitoes buzzed and spun, gathering into clouds beneath the blue sky, chasing the scent of blood. Farther off, mist rose and coiled, endless jungle blotted out the sun, and not a trace of human habitation could be seen anywhere—only the primordial wilderness.

At this moment, three Caravels were struggling eastward upstream through the raging current, aided by a faint west wind. The flagship at the head was slightly larger, and from its tall mast flew the banner of the Portuguese royal house. A few curious waterbirds had been drawn over, chasing the slowly advancing sailing ships and circling around the mast.

Captain Diogo Cao's face was pale, his expression gloomy. He sat upright in the captain's cabin at the stern, motionless, like a silent statue. Even in the hot tropics, he was still wrapped in a thick wool blanket. From time to time, the "statue" would tremble slightly and let out a few stifled, dry coughs.

Spread out before the "statue" was a roll of parchment. Beside the parchment lay an ink-dipped feather pen, a crude protractor, and a parallel ruler for navigation. Across the parchment were curved lines everywhere, precise latitude markings, blurred longitude markings, and dense Portuguese annotations. Clearly, this was a newly drawn nautical chart.

To the north of the map was the starting point of the voyage, the kingdom's capital, Lisbon. Last