The myriad other war-junks of Zheng He’s fleet kept station astern across the Gulf of Gades – impossibly large under the brilliant sun; impossibly and spikily graceful. At least a dozen European and North African ships out of Carthage were, out of apparent sheer curiosity, attempting to keep up with us. Frankish cogs, Venetian galleys . . . The wooden rail jammed hard under my ribs as I leaned out, looking toward our stern. A cog flying the colours of Genoa tacked across the war-junk’s wake, bowsprit jutting high out of the blue-grey waves – just as high as the top of our rudder. Their deck was a cliff’s depth below me. Sounding unusually confused, Rekhmire’ murmured, ‘What ought I to see?’ I pointed at the departing Genoese ship – and the other vessels sailing towards us from the entrance to the harbour. ‘ That isn’t right,’ I protested. ‘It doesn’t matter if they’ve heard rumours. This is Zheng He’s giant devil-ship in the flesh – and his fleet! Why isn’t Gades in a panic?’ 318 15 ‘There’s the answer.’ I balanced uneasily, a knee on the boat’s prow, and studied the quay of Gades ahead.
