Cristoforo reached down, took the match from the cinderpot, touched it to two of the firepots, and then, holding them tight though they singed his doublet, he stepped atop the forecastle, where he could get a clear throw at the nearest corsair. "Captain!" he cried. "Now?"

The captain didn't hear him -- there was too much shouting at the helm. Never mind. Cristoforo could see that things were desperate, and the closer the corsairs got, the likelier the chance of the flames taking both ships. He threw the pot.

His arm was strong, his aim true, or true enough. The pot shattered on the corsair's deck, splashing flames like a spin of bright orange dye across the wood. In moments it was dancing up the sheets to the sails. For the first time, the pirates weren't grinning and hooting. Now they pulled all the more grimly on the grappling lines, and Cristoforo realized that of course their only hope, with their own ship afire, was to take the merchant vessel.

Turning, he could see that another corsair, also grappling with a Genovese ship, was close enough that he could visit a bit of fire on it, too. His aim was not as good -- the pot splashed harmlessly into the sea. But now the ship's boy was lighting the pots and handing them up to him, and Cristoforo managed to put two onto the deck of the farther corsair, and another pair onto the deck of the pirate ship that was preparing to board his own. "Signor Spinola," he said, "forgive me for losing your cargo."

But Signor Spinola would not hear his prayers, he knew. And it wasn't a matter of his career as a trader now. It was a matter of saving his life. Dear God, he said silently, am I to be your servant or not? I give my life to you, if you spare it now. I will free Constantinople. "The Hagia Sophia will once again hear the music of the holy mass," he murmured. "Only save me alive, dear God."

"This is his moment of decision?" asked Kemal.

"No, of course not," said Diko. "I just wanted you to see what I was doing. This scene has been shown a thousand times, of course. Columbus against Columbus, they called it, since he and the pirate had the same name. But all the recordings were from the days of the Tempoview, right? So we saw his lips move, but in the chaos of battle there was no hope of hearing what he said. He was speaking too softly, his lips moved too slightly. And this bothered no one, because after all, what does it matter how a man prays in the midst of battle?"

"But this does matter, I think," said Hassan. "The Hagia Sophia?"

"The holiest shrine in Constantinople. Perhaps the most beautiful Christian place in all the world, in these days before the Sistine Chapel. And when Columbus is praying for God to spare his life, what does he vow? An eastern crusade. I found this several days ago, and it kept me awake night after night. Everyone had always looked for the origin of his westward voyage back farther, on Chios, perhaps, or in Genova. But he has already left Genova now for the last time. He'll never turn back. And he's only a week away from the beginning of his time in Lisbon, when it's clear that he has already turned his eyes irrevocably, resolutely to the west. And yet here, at this moment, he vows to liberate Constantinople."

"Unbelievable," said Kemal.

"So you see," said Diko, "I knew that whatever it was that turned him to his obsession with the western voyage, with the Indies, it must have happened between this moment on board this ship whose sails are already burning, and his arrival in Lisbon a week later."

"Excellent," said Hassan. "Fine work, Diko. This narrows it down considerably."

"Father," said Diko. "I discovered this days ago. I told you that I found the moment of decision, not that I had found the week."

"Then show us," said Tagiri.

"I'm afraid to," said Diko.

"And why is that?"

"Because it's impossible. Because ... because as far as I can tell, God speaks to him."

"Show us," said Kemal. "I've always wanted to hear the voice of God."

Everyone laughed.

Except Diko. She didn't laugh. "You're about to," she said.

They stopped laughing.

The pirates were aboard, and along with them came the fire, leaping from sail to sail. It was obvious to all that even if they somehow repulsed the pirates, both ships were doomed. Those sailors who weren't already engaged in bloody-handed combat began throwing kegs and hatch covers into the water, and several managed to get the ship's boat into the water on the side opposite the pirates' ship. Cristoforo saw how the captain disdained to abandon his ship -- he was fighting bravely, his sword dancing. And then the sword wasn't there, and through the smoke swirling across the deck Cristoforo could no longer see him.

Sailors were leaping into the sea, striking out for bits of floating debris. Cristoforo caught a glimpse of one sailor pushing another from a hatch-cover; he saw another go under the water without having found anything to cling to. The only reason pirates hadn't yet reached Cristoforo himself was that they were making some effort to cut loose the burning masts of the Genovese ship before the fire spread down to the deck. It looked to Cristoforo as though they might succeed, saving themselves and the cargo at the expense of the Genovese. That was intolerable. The Genovese would fail in any case -- but Cristoforo could at least make certain that the pirates also failed.

Taking two more flaming pots in his hands, he lobbed one out onto the deck of his own ship, and then the second even farther, so that the helm was soon engulfed in flames. The pirates cried out in rage -- those who weren't screaming in pain or terror -- and their eyes soon found Cristoforo and the ship's boy on the forecastle.

"I think now's the time for us to leap into the sea," said Cristoforo.

"I can't swim," said the ship's boy.

"I can," said Cristoforo. But first he pulled up the hatch cover from the forecastle, dragged it to the gunwale, and heaved it over the side. Then, taking the boy by the hand, he jumped into the water just as the pirates swarmed up from the deck.

The boy was right about his inability to swim, and it took Cristoforo considerable effort just to get him up onto the hatch cover. But once the boy was safely atop the floating wood, he calmed down. Cristoforo tried to get part of his own weight onto the tiny raft, but it made it tilt dangerously down into the water, and the boy panicked. So Cristoforo let himself back down into the water. It was five leagues to shore, at least -- more likely six. Cristoforo was a strong swimmer, but not that strong. He needed to cling to something to help bear his weight so he could rest in the water from time to time, and if it couldn't be this hatch cover, he would have to leave it and find something else. "Listen, boy!" shouted Cristoforo. "The shore is that way!" He pointed.

Did the boy understand? His eyes were wide, but at least he looked at Cristoforo as he spoke.

"Paddle with your hands," said Cristoforo. "That way!"

But the boy just sat there, terrified, and then he looked away from Cristoforo toward the burning ship.

It was too tiring, treading water while trying to communicate with this boy. He had saved the boy's life, and now he had to get about the business of saving his own.

What he finally found, as he swam toward the invisible shore, was a floating oar. It wasn't a raft and couldn't lift him entirely out of the water, but by straddling the handle and keeping the blade of the oar flat under his chest and face he was able to get some respite when his arms grew weary. Soon he left the smoke of the fires behind him, and then the sound of screaming men, though whether he ceased hearing that awful noise because he had swum so far or because all had drowned, he could not guess. He did not look back; he did not see the burning hulks finally slip down under the water. Already the ships were forgotten, and his commercial mission. All he thought of now was moving his arms and legs, struggling through the heaving waters of the Atlantic toward the ever-receding shore.