"It is uncertain whether "Zumbi" or "Zambi" was a proper name, title, epithet, or praise name. Nzambi is the usual KiMbundu name for the Supreme Being. The word nzumbi means 'ancestral spirit'... In Central African culture an nzumbi demands special propitiatory attention, lest it disturb its descendants. For this reason, the KiMbundu nzumbi has often been mistranslated as 'evil spirit.' It is this sense that is usually meant in Brazil by zumbi." -"The Slave King," Professor Robert Nelson Anderson III "[Zumbi is]... a black man of singular valor, great spirit, and rare constancy. He is the overseer of the rest, because his industry, judgment, and strength to our people serve as an obstacle -- to his an example." -Sergeant-Major Manuel Lopes Galv~o, 1675 ----------------------------------------------- Palmares, Brazil, 17th century. In the 17th century, in most of the Americas, if you were black, you were a slave. However, the enslaved Africans were not as docile and accepting of their captivity as their European overseer s wanted them to be, nor as historians of later generations depicted them. Almost from the moment of their arrival in the New World, slaves managed to find ways to reclaim their freedom. Some died rather than submit to slavery. Some enacted their revenge through acts of sabotage. Some fled to the wilderness to survive day by day. Some, however, not content to merely survive on the edge of civilization, banded together to form communities in which they recreated the villages, towns, and political structures of their not yet forgotten homelands in Africa. These "maroon" communities (a corruption of the word "Camaroon"), were a constant thorn in the side of colonial authorities in the Caribbean and Latin America. The most impressive of all these transplanted African kingdoms was the "mocambo," or maroon settlement of Palmares, in northeastern Brazil. By 1606, a growing number of runaway slaves were flocking to a mountainous region of Pernambuco were a mocambo was coalescing. Despite its humble beginnings, the mocambo was to survive for nearly a century. The kingdom of Palmares, so named because of the preponderance of wild palms in the region, first came to the notice of the European powers in the 1640's. The Dutch, seeking to recapture fugitive slaves who'd fled south during their invasion of Pernambuco in the 1630's sent expeditions lead by Bartholomeus Lintz (1640), Roelox Baro (1643), and Johan Blaer and J~rgens Reijmbach (1645) which were met by heretofore unheard of organized resistance. The slaves were not recovered. The Portuguese were to meet with a similar fate in their initial encounters. In 1654, after expelling the Dutch from Brazil, the Portuguese tried their hands at destroying the kingdom. The period from 1654 to 1678 was marked by some 20 incursions into Palmares -- in some cases two a year. It was in this time of strife that the "general das armas" who came to be known as "Zumbi" was born and rose to power. In 1655, Br~s da Rocha Cardoso led the first Portuguese on Palmares. The attack would've been of no significance, save for capture of a native Palmerino baby boy. The boy was given to one Ant~nio Melo, a priest in the coastal town of Porto Calvo. Baptized as "Francisco," the boy was raised as the priest's protege and was instructed in Portuguese, Latin, and other subjects. Despite the bond forged with the priest and his exposure to a different side of colonial society, in 1670, at the age of 15, the youth ran away to rejoin his family and his people. He would, however, continue to visit Fr. Melo in secret. It was during the 1675-76 campaign ordered by Governor Dom Pedro de Almeida that a man identified as the same Francisco raised in Porto Calvo, now sporting the nom de guerre of "Zambi," emerged as the driving force behind the Palmarino resistance. Once again the kingdom repulsed outside invaders. The 1677 campaign led by militia captain Fern~o Carrilho proved more deadly. Paramount chief Ganga-Zumba was wounded in an attack in November 1677, and a number of his sons, nephews, and grandchildren were captured. In a dispatch sent to the ConselhoUltramarino, Carrilho stated that Zumbi himself was dealt such a grievous wound -- a near amputation of a leg -- that he was not expected to survive. Apparently, the captain was mistaken. If anything, Zumbi's power increased after this first stunning defeat. He started to refer to himself as if he were divine. In 1678, Ganga-Zumba, becoming war-weary, accepted a peace treaty from the governor of Pernambuco. The king would retain sovereignty over the Palmerinos, but in return he would return all of the fugitive slaves and relocate his people from the mountains to the Cuca~ Valley, closer to the watchful eye of the colonial government. Ganga-Zumba complied and relocated. Zumbi would have none of it. The general gathered around him a faction who felt as he did -- that the colonials could not be trusted. The rift in Palmares was noted by the Portuguese. A 1680 dispatch from Sergeant-Major Manuel Lopes Galv~o to the governor stated that Zumbi and/or his partisans had "indulged in the wide-spread African practice of regicide" and poisoned the king. Now acting as king, Zumbi broke the treaty and waged an all-out war against the Portuguese. Finally in response, the Brazilian authorities brought out the big guns in the form of one Domingos Jorge Velho, a so-called bandeirante, or wilderness tamer from São Paulo who specialized in fighting Indians and capturing runaway slaves. Gathering his forces in Porto Calvo for months, the "bush captain" set out for the mountain kingdom in late 1693. His forces laid seige to the heavy fortification of the royal compound of Macaco for 22 days. Zumbi's leadership failed in spectacular fashion. Perhaps he had become to dictatorial. Chaos ensued as the Palmarinos began abandoning their positions in order to attack from the rear and destroy a counter-fortification being constructed by Velho's men. In the fatal battle which took place on February 5-6, 1694, some 300 Palmarinos were killed in battle and another 200 died in leaping or being pushed from the precipice at the rear of the compound. Over 500 maroons were taken prisoner and lost the freedom they'd struggled to preserve for 90 years. But Zumbi escaped. The general, whose star was rapidly fading, continued to lead raids against the colonials for another year. However, a traitor ultimately revealed Zumbi's location to the Portuguese. On November 20th, 1695, the warrior and a small band of men were ambushed and killed. Zumbi's mutilated body was identified in Porto Calvo. To break the spirit of the people and dispel persistant rumors of Zumbi's divinity, the Portuguese took his head to Recife, the capital of Pernambuco, and displayed it for all to see. Only... The head displayed was that of some poor unfortunate, not Zumbi. And the dead, mutilated body Fr. Antonio spirited away from Porto Calvo knitted itself back together again. Perhaps Zumbi really *was* blessed by the gods, as he'd claimed. "It is uncertain whether "Zumbi" or "Zambi" was a proper name, title, epithet, or praise name. Nzambi is the usual KiMbundu name for the Supreme Being. The word nzumbi means 'ancestral spirit'... In Central African culture an nzumbi demands special propitiatory attention, lest it disturb its descendants. For this reason, the KiMbundu nzumbi has often been mistranslated as 'evil spirit.' It is this sense that is usually meant in Brazil by zumbi." -"The Slave King," Professor Robert Nelson Anderson III "[Zumbi is]... a black man of singular valor, great spirit, and rare constancy. He is the overseer of the rest, because his industry, judgment, and strength to our people serve as an obstacle -- to his an example." -Sergeant-Major Manuel Lopes Galvão, 1675 "People make their own history, but they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances directly encountered, given and transmitted from the past. The tradition of all the dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brain of the living." -Karl Marx ………. Pernambuco, Brazil November 22, 1695 A.D. … You have felt this pain before, but the shock of rebirth can't be denied this time. If ever there was a doubt that you are a descendant of Chango, the spirit of fire and lightning, that you ARE an incarnate immortal, they are gone now. For you are still alive! Despite having been shot multiple times, and you felt the musket balls go through your lungs and heart. Another blew through your leg, like last time. You even think one must have carved a path through your skull -- at least, your last definite memory was trying to reach the cover of the trees, coughing up blood and sinking to your knees, forced to crawl the last few yards as your heart stopped pumping enough blood to reach your legs, and then something hit the back of your head with the impact of a rock dropped from the top of a mountain, and you only saw red before it faded to black. You had been ambushed, betrayed. The Portuguese were well-positioned to cut down the lot of you as you crossed open ground, and they were prepared. Your diminishing band of followers walked right into a trap, as you set out on another raid -- a raid that someone obviously forewarned the colonials about. It could have been anyone; the list of enemies you've made now encompasses many of your own people. They said that your authority was faltering even before Velho destroyed Palmares two years ago. But it's hard for a man who thinks himself imbued with divinity to question the righteousness of his path, and you had ample evidence that your path was blessed. Since the day you were "mortally" wounded by Captain Fernão Carrilho, only to stand up that night, fully recovered, you have never suffered a lasting injury. You have sensed things other men cannot sense, and as the years passed, you have not grown older. Was this not proof that you were chosen by the gods? It was that confidence that led you to plot Ganga-Zumba's assassination, when he was ready to make peace with the colonial government. Still, while you never ceased fighting the Portuguese, you did not put yourself in danger unnecessarily -- you had no way of knowing whether you would survive being shot to death, and it is not wise to tempt the gods. It had to come to this eventually, though. The colonial governments of the Dutch and then the Portuguese had been trying to destroy the quilombos for over half a century, but the bandeirante Domingos Jorge Velho finally succeeded. You narrowly escaped when Macaco fell. Since then, you and a small band of survivors had been hiding in the mountains, making increasingly furtive raids on the sugar plantations below, raids which were balked more often than not, and in which you lost more men than you gained. Then this. But you are still alive! Chango has saved you once again. Wherever this is. Sitting up, you find you are lying on a blanket inside a shack of some sort. You can hear forest noises outside, and the doorway is open. This does not look like a prison, a graveyard, or a plaza for executions, the only places you can imagine the Portuguese would take you. <><><><><> Zumbi rolled off the blanket and stood, being careful to make no noise. A frown crossed his handsome face as he carefully touched his head, chest and legs, feeling for injury. None. The frown got deeper still as he took in his situation. He was actually insulted that there were no guards here. "Stupid Portuguese," he muttered in his native tongue. Didn't they know what a prize he was? And they would leave his body in the open like that, where any animal could just wander in and drag it off. If *he* had captured Velho, he would have done something more creative. Maybe he'd have sent pieces of him to each mocambo as a good luck charm. Stupid Portuguese. That's why the colonials shouldn't have been surprised that Africans had been living free in Alagoas and Pernambuco for 90 years. It was treachery and loss of faith that had killed Palmares, not European bullets or ingenuity. They couldn't even control their own people. The Africans had not relied on simple raiding to support the mocambos. They'd openly traded with backwoods Portuguese settlements. Trade had been so prosperous, the colonial settlers themselves had protested their government's plan to crush the maroon kingdom. Africans, Indios, even whites had lived in Zumbi's kingdom, his beautiful mountain kingdom. Angola janga. Chango's domain under the wild palms was no more. Not one to get emotional, Zumbi became grim instead. Ever the strategist, he was already forumlating plans. Velho the "bush captain" had to be punished. The Palmarinos captured at the siege of Macaco, if they could be found and freed, would follow him again, he was sure of it. Even the sons of Ganga-Zumba, the cousins whom he'd made fatherless, could be made into allies again. Zumbi's grandmother had once told him, "You could sell water to a fish." He could do all of this. But first, he had to know who was alive, and who could be trusted. And before that, he had to know where he was. With cautious, silent steps, he edged towards the shack's opening, taking care that he not be seen by anyone outside. Perhaps there had been a guard, and he had stepped out to relieve himself. <><><><><> <> Peeking outside, you see only jungle. Cautiously emerging, you find that the shack is more of a lean-to, a very crudely-built affair. There is a circle of stones nearby, and ashes still smouldering, so someone had a fire going not long ago. But you see nothing else in sight -- no other people, no other structures. You hear a river running, just out of sight. Then footsteps, approaching from the other side of the large tree against which the lean-to is built. <><><><><> Zumbi's eyes narrowed and he stepped back into the lean-to. His intention was to meld into the shadows just long enough to grab whoever was unlucky enough to be approaching. If they were armed, he would wrest their weapon from them. Then he would slay them, and move on. Zumbi's people needed to know he had risen from the dead. In the darkness of the lean-to, the warrior's muscles tensed as he stood, poised to spring. He cocked his head to one side, listening for the precise moment of attack. <><><><><> <> The man passes directly in front of the opening, and you spring out and grab him. He gasps in surprise, and drops the bag he was carrying. "Francisco!" he exclaims. It is a familiar voice -- that of Father Melo. "Good God, Francisco, you nearly scared me to death!" he pants. And struggling slightly, grimacing at the grip you have on his throat, he says "Would you mind letting go of me now?" <><><><><> "It is 'Zumbi,' you know. You will forever insist on using that slave name you gave me as a boy." The warrior grunted and released the priest. Despite his gruff manner, Zumbi relaxed. Antonio Melo was a man who could be trusted. It was he who'd interceded and taken in a child captured in the first Portuguese raid on Palmares in 1655. Without that intercession, Zumbi likely would've lived out his life harvesting sugar cane. "What is this?" he said with a gesture that encompassed the lean-to, the jungle, and extension, everything. "Tell me all that has happened since the ambush," he said, immediately falling into the role again of a general to whom a scout was reporting. As an afterthought he belatedly added, "Thank you." <><><><><> <> "Francisco is the name I baptized you with," Father Melo says, sounding a little wounded. He bends over slowly and picks up the sack he dropped. Antonio Melo was a young Jesuit when he arrived in Brazil, almost fifty years ago. You haven't seen him in several years, and now the degree to which he has aged is shockingly apparent. He is an old man now; his once-thick black hair has become white and sparse. He still moves nimbly enough, but he's slower, and the strong, working priest who once dragged you through the village by your ears when he caught you up to some mischief, you could now probably break in two with little effort. "I brought some food," he says. "I thought you might be hungry." And you are -- your stomach is growling mightily. He sits down on a stump. "I built this...oh, years ago. A refuge that might be needed some time..." And no doubt, has been. Though the Jesuit has never spoken out against slavery, he certainly disapproves of treating slaves in what he considers an "unchristian" manner...he has never admitted as much -- to do so would expose him to the wrath of the colonial authorities -- but you long suspected that there were some slaves who had a little help in escaping Porto Calvo and fleeing to Palmares. He looks at you. "They brought you and your slain followers to Porto Calvo. But you..." he swallows, and says "When I came to perform last rites over the bodies, even though it was too late, really, *you were not dead*! Though that bandeirante claimed to have personally shot you through the head." His eyes study your face, which should be the face of a forty year-old man, but you know it is not. "I....dragged your body out, and found another one of your companions who was about your size and had a head wound, and I put your necklace around his neck. And I identified him as you." "Now they think they are taking Zumbi's head to Recife." He leans back and sighs. "We're about three miles from town, and dragging you through the jungle was no easy task, let me tell you." <><><><><> Zumbi absorbed everything the priest had to say. Then he said seriously, "You realize you have put yourself in great danger? What will happen if someone else who knows my face sees this head and tells the authorities? What will become of you? How long has it been since you left Porto Calvo? Perhaps even now you are missed." He looked at the aging Jesuit. Zumbi could escape into the jungle or the mountains and hide there indefinitely. This old man would not survive in the wild. A fugitive's life would kill him. He had to have known that. "How will you explain your absence when you go back, father?" he asked carefully. "Or... did you plan on never returning to your church?" <><><><><> <> Father Melo waves a hand dismissively. "I come and go as I please," he says. "I'm always going out to the plantations. And if someone discovers I misidentified you..." he shrugs. "I'm an old man, I made a mistake. Don't worry about me, Francisco." "I'm more worried about you. What will YOU do? You need to leave Pernambuco before you're seen." <><><><><> "I have a people to lead," Zumbi said stubbornly. "There are enemies that must be rooted out and punished." He looked at the sack of food. "What do you have there?" he asked. <><><><><> <> "Francisco, your army is gone. Your kingdom is gone." The priest sighs, then opens the sack. "Biscuits, fruit, peppers, corn...traveling provisions. I don't know where you can go, but there are few places in Pernambuco where you can hide." <><><><><> Zumbi looked at the priest, but said nothing. His expression remained steadily neutral. He reached for a fruit and ate it. Thoughts went through his mind. He could go north to Recife. He could hide on the fringes of society until he caught up with the government officials who had destroyed his kingdom. He could pick them off, one by one. But in the city, he would be a nothing. He would have no friends, no followers. He would have to be one step ahead of the slave catchers every day. Or, he could go south to Bahia. There were fugitive slaves there in the forest. He could join with them, teach them, as he had taught the Palmarinos. But he would not be king. He would not be the "general das armas." He would be just another soldier living in the bush. No, that was not acceptable. It would have to be the former course. It would be a dangerous game, conducting his guerrilla warfare right under the noses of his greatest enemies, but at least he would be his own master. He could continue to be the sword of vengeance his god wanted him to be. This, surely, was the purpose for which he had been brought back from the dead. "I know where I will go," Zumbi stated firmly. But he did not tell Fr. Antonio. It would be better for the old man not to know. <><><><><> <> Father Melo looks at you, and for a moment you think he's going to ask where you'll go, but then he reconsiders and sighs. "Starting another war won't get what you want," he says quietly. "You can keep killing until they finally do kill you for certain, but all you'll be doing is getting more blood on your hands, and inviting reprisals against other slaves. Won't you consider finding someplace to hide in peace?" <><><><><> Zumbi listened, but his mind was made up already. If some people had to die for the greater good, that was just. If there was to be blood on Zumbi's hands, it was necessary. Fr. Melo was starting to sound like Ganga-Zamba. Towards the end the paramount chief had tired of the struggle and made an ill-conceived visit to the colonial governor to forge a "peace." In the name of "peace" he'd disarmed the people, returned the most recent fugitive slaves to their masters, and moved the community to an indefensable position under the thumb of the enemy. An unfortunate mistake. His last. Something the priest had just said sunk in, all of a sudden: *...reprisals against _other_ slaves...* Zumbi had never been a slave. He'd been born free. When he'd been captured as a child in a Portuguese raid on Palmares, he'd been given to Fr. Melo. He'd been treated as a protege, never a servant. In truth, the priest had seen to it that he had a better education than the average Portuguese. So, then, it was... curious to hear the priest refer to him in such a manner. Had the old man always viewed him as no different than the cane cutters? "I thank you for the food, and for seeing to it that they did not take my body and put it on display," Zumbi replied finally. "It would be better if I leave now." <><><><><> <> Of course Fr. Melo might not have meant you -- he could have meant "other slaves" as in "other slaves besides those that have already suffered reprisals after your raids." It's hard to be sure. The old man was for all practical purposes your father, but he also has supported the colonial authorities for all the years he's been in Brazil. He feels sympathy for the slaves, but he would obviously rather see them remain slaves than rise up and kill their oppressors. He looks at you and nods. Though you are his protege, there has never been a lot of emotion between you. "I...suppose I may not see you again. I will pray for you, Francisco." <><><><><> Zumbi nodded. "I will pray for you too -- in my own way," he replied. Having said that, the warrior gathered up his meager provisions. He quickly scanned the lean-to for anything that might prove useful in his journey. Then Zumbi left, to begin his third life. <><><><><> <> Recife, Brazil ..... The hike north to Recife, the capital of Pernambuco, takes a few days. You could have made it more quickly, but it seems that the Portuguese still have their soldiers out in force, watchful of any further uprisings among the slaves. No doubt news of the death of Zumbi of Palmares will be spread as quickly as possible, from Port Natal to the Highlands to the south, so as to discourage the slaves working the sugar plantations and demoralize the remaining quilombos. But in the wake of your ambush, there may be unrest, as rumors fly. Until the colonial government can display the head of "Ganga Zumbi" in Recife, they will be fearful of more outbreaks by rebellious slaves, or vengeful raids from outlaw bands in the Serra da Barriga, or further south in Bahia. So you see more soldiers than usual riding or marching along the coastal roads that were cleared by slaves, and at every village they are either making a presence, or have been by recently. Not many Portuguese would recognize you, but there is always the possibility....and your face was known to thousands of Palmarinos, and many of them have been recaptured and dispersed throughout the colony. So you have to be careful. The provisions Father Melo gave you last almost until you reach Recife, and you're able to forage for a little more food along the way. At the end of November, you reach the coastal city of Recife, where the Portuguese navy docks, and where most African slaves from Angola first set foot in Brazil. <><><><><> Zumbi entered the city of Recife with no fanfare. It was true that he had held grand dreams of entering this city one day at the head of a conquering army, making the streets run red with the blood of the oppressors. It didn't happen. It should have. He would have to think differently now, plan according to his means, to achieve the same effect. On his way to the city he transformed himself, if not in mind, then in appearance at least. His long braided hair was shorn, leaving him with a bald head. The thick full beard and moustache were shaved off as well. As he gazed at his reflection in a stream, he nodded in satisfaction. The change was striking. It wasn't the face of a 40 year-old man staring back at him. Despite his large frame, he looked very much the youth now. It struck him then that it would always be this way -- Zumbi contemplating Zumbi, for an eternity. Once in the city, he made his way to the docks. He had little fear of discovery. His clothes were worn and he kept to side streets. He passed soldiers in the street, but his body language telegraphed that he was a servant on some errand for some nameless master. His was just another black face, not that of the renegade -- deceased! -- general das armas. He listened to the talk of the people -- slaves, servants, masters, soldiers -- trying to get a sense of what the feeling was on the street. What is the news? Where was Velho? Who had betrayed Zumbi and instigated the ambush? Where had the people of the quilombos been dispersed to? What had happened to the other high-ranking Palmarino soldiers? The basic plan was to fall in with a work crew here or there, find out some information, and slip away again. He was counting on his anonymity, camaraderie among the slaves, and lax guarding of the laborers on the part of the overseers. He watched a slave ship dock from the place where he'd paused to think in the darkness of an alley. Fresh captives were unloaded, their limbs stiff from their long incarceration in the belly of the ship. Zumbi's lips curled in disgust. There was no Palmares for them to run to. Even those who had never made it to the kingdom of the wild palms at least had had the hope of it in their hearts to help them through another day once they heard of it. He looked at the women and silently apologized to them. He wondered how many of them had _not_ been abused by these so-called civilized men, as his own grandmother had been. They were getting ready to sell women who were even now carrying the results of their captors' unwanted "attentions." Ultimately, they were selling their own souls. It was beyond comprehension. "Who are the savages?" he thought to himself. "Us, or them?" <><><><><> <> Recife is the main port of Pernambuco. Actually, it is Olinda, five miles away, that is the capital of the colonial government. [I just found that out. ] Recife remains the major entry and departure point of Pernambuco, though, and the place through which most traffic passes. The white sand beaches, palm trees, and coral reefs just offshore are beautiful, but the slaves brought here by the Portuguese have little opportunity to appreciate the beauty of the place to which they've been brought. The ease with which you've always been able to ingratiate yourself with strangers allows you to fall in with a construction crew that's only barely watched over by a couple of lazy Portuguese overseers. From them, you hear the disheartening news of Ganga-Zumbi's death. His head was paraded through the city, and then mounted on a pike in front of the harbor garrison, so that every slave disembarking from the slave galleons would see it in passing. The slaves you talk to do not know details of his capture, or what happened to his lieutenants and the other Palmarinos, only that Domingos Jorge Velho spent the first day in Recife, then went to Olinda to collect his reward. He is there now -- he may be returning to Recife, or from there he may head back south. <><><><><> Zumbi was struck by the morbid desire to see "his" head on display, but he resisted the temptation. Instead, he concentrated on solidifying his plan. The news that Velho was in Olinda, not here, was a setback, but only a minor one. Five miles was nothing to travel. A plan was coalescing in his mind. He would need better clothes, the clothes of a house slave. With that attire and his knowledge of the inner workings of the households of the privileged class, he could infiltrate the very homes of the people he wanted to punish. Disguised as a servant, he could get very close to his enemies indeed. Zumbi grinned to himself. Before leaving Recife, he set out to do two things -- acquire a little food, and liberate some suitable clothes from the laundry of one of the gentry. <><><><><> <> As always, finding someone who will share food with you is not difficult. You acquire enough to last a day, easily enough to get you to Olinda. Stealing clothes is slightly more challenging, but only slightly. You're almost caught, when another servant sees you retreating from a courtyard where clothes were hanging on a line, but he doesn't chase you. You now have an outfit that will let you pass as a domestic servant. <><><><><> Having secured the clothes and food, Zumbi set out for Olinda. He didn't believe in wasting any time. On the short trek between cities he kept to side roads. He didn't really feel a need to hide entirely, since there were enough people coming and going that one lone traveller wouldn't attract undue attention, but he was avoiding possible confrontations. At least at the moment. On the road his thoughts were preoccupied with what lay ahead. There were a variety of domestics he could masquerade as. Kitchen work would give him access to the food his enemies ate. As a groom he would have access to their mounts, as well as low visibility. As a butler, he would have access to the household at large, but the visibility would be high. He was unable to make a decision yet. This required some more thought. First thing first. Get to Olinda. Find out if, indeed, Velho was there, and if so, where. Then find a place to wash and change. Then infiltrate. Then kill. <><><><><> <> When you arrive in Olinda, you find it looking a bit more sedate and luxurious than Recife, but also a bit less inhabited. Olinda is mostly occupied by plantationers and the colonial government, and while it's still the capital of the province, nearby Recife seems to be growing at a much faster rate, drawing more merchants there. After a bit of inquiry, you hear that Vellho is indeed still in town -- as a guest of the governor. Quite an honor for a bandeirante mercenary. You aren't sure how well guarded the governor's mansion is, but infiltrating it will probably be more difficult than conducting a raid on some outlying plantationer's home, which you used to do all the time. <><><><><> It was good news to hear that his hated enemy, Velho was still in town. Good, good. The orixas were undoubtably working in his favor. Zumbi considered the situation at hand. Some things worked in his favor, some things didn't. The fact that the governor's household was a large one was a plus. Among scores of servants he ought to be able to hide in plain sight. Then there was the downside. House slaves tended to be a tight-knit group. They knew each other. The masters literally bred them to each other. Sometimes the masters, proudly oblivious to their own hypocrisy, fathered children with them. In colonial Brazil's racially stratified society, the house slaves held as high a position as a slave could have. They were largely of the "crioulo" (creole) or "pardo" (brown) castes. To be crioulo meant you were better than pardo. Certainly, both crioulos or pardos were light years away from "pretos," or "negros" -- blacks. Africans. Strictly speaking, Zumbi was pardo, though he loathed the term. Indeed, he had spent a large part of his life trying to be as African as possible. He wasn't "better" because he was pardo -- he was pardo because his beloved grandmother, Aqualtune, had been raped by a slaver who undoubtably thought himself a good Christian. That's not something one easily forgets. Nevertheless, Zumbi's skin color would give him access to a higher rung of slave society. But if this wasn't a household where new faces were often added to the elite servants' ranks, they'd know he was a stranger. Like as not, they'd turn him in. Few house slaves had fled the plantations to join the mocambos. New additions to the quilombos had overwhelmingly consisted of field slaves who had fled because they'd had nothing left to lose, or Africans newly arrived on these foreign shores who fled to the kingdom of the wild palms because the only other way home was through suicide. Zumbi approached the governor's mansion at night, having washed the grime of the road from his body as best he could and assuming the house servants' garb. His idea was to scout in stages. First he'd masquerade as a groom among the horses, keeping an ear open to hear pertinent news, if any. Then, if possible, he'd progress to the kitchen. Perhaps the job could be done there. If not, he'd have to become very bold indeed. <><><><><> <> You have shoes to go with your outfit. When you approach the governor's stables, though, you see some of the house servants standing outside, near the entrance to the mansion, and realize your clothes won't pass an up-close inspection in the house. They are wearing clothes finer than the average Portuguese gentleman wears -- the Governor must like having his slaves look fancy, or else there is a formal event going on. The clothes you stole are shabby by comparison. They are good enough to get you into the stables, though. Another groom, a young boy wearing a simple shirt and pants, is wheeling hay in, and you see two other men in the vicinity, one slave and one Portuguese. They are talking and joking about the Governor's guests, and how the Governor is trying to hide the fact that he's annoyed that they're drinking all his best wine. The boy glances at you and his forehead wrinkles curiously, but he does not approach you or challenge you as he begins tossing hay to the horses. There are quite a few horses -- no doubt some of them belong to Velho and his men. <><><><><> Zumbi offered the stablehand a friendly smile and came closer. "I'm supposed to be helping here," he offered. "Is there more work to be done with the horses?" He looked at the animals admiringly. "These are very fine mounts." He got to work quickly, hoping to keep an eye on the Portuguese and the other slave without attracting undue attention to himself. Though his outward demeanor was calm, Zumbi was running through plan after plan in his mind. He had to exchange clothes with one of these fancy slaves, and soon. <><><><><> <> "These belong to the bandeirantes," the boy says. "They've already been cooled and watered and groomed. All that's left is feeding them." He looks at you with curiousity and a little irritation, perhaps annoyed that the newcomer has shown up only after most of the work is already done. "You're new," he says, not making it a question. "Where are you quartered?" <><><><><> "They haven't told me anything yet," Zumbi said with a shrug. "The masters have greater concerns than what to do with one slave." He flashed a friendly grin. "Maybe you can show me where to stay." He pitched in and started feeding the horses. "I'm Donaldo," he said, randomly picking a name. "You are...?" <><><><><> <> The boy frowns. "Usually Fernando is not so careless," he says. "He is doubtless busy attending to the Master's many guests." "My name is Juan. After we finish, we can find Fernando and ask him where you are supposed to go." As you finish with the horses, the other slave shouts at Juan to go wash up because he's needed in the house, while the Portuguese man strides off towards the mansion. Juan grimaces. "I am not a house-slave," he says. "I heard some of these bandeirantes are perverts who prefer boys to women." <><><><><> Zumbi frowned inwardly, disgusted at this European perversion he was hearing about. "Listen, friend, I see you don't want to go. I wouldn't want to be around such foul men either, but if I had fancy clothes, I would take your place. They wouldn't know the difference. We all look alike to them anyway."