2. Heroes and Villains of the Age of Exploration: Early European Exploration

My Name is Niccolò de' Conti: Across the Roads of Silk and Spice

I am Niccolò de' Conti, born in the proud and glittering republic of Venice sometime in the late 14th century. Venice was no ordinary city—it was a bridge between East and West, a place where spices, silks, and stories arrived from lands unseen. From childhood, I heard tales of Marco Polo, whose family once lived not far from mine. But unlike Polo, whose path took him East under Mongol rule, my journey would begin in disguise, driven not by commission, but by curiosity.

Departure in the Shadow of IslamIn the early years of the 15th century, Christendom and the Muslim world often stood in tension. But trade had its own language, and I, a Venetian Christian, decided to travel deep into Islamic lands. To avoid suspicion, I learned Arabic and adopted the manners of a Muslim merchant. This wasn’t betrayal—it was survival. My wife and children joined me on this journey, and for the better part of 25 years, the lands of the East became our home.

Through the Heart of AsiaFrom Damascus to Baghdad, and then to Hormuz, I traced the ancient routes where spices and jewels passed hands. Crossing into India, I marveled at cities like Cambay, Vijayanagara, and Calicut. I witnessed elephants in royal processions, astronomers who mapped the heavens without looking to Rome, and markets where pepper was worth its weight in gold. The seas took me farther still—to Sri Lanka, Sumatra, and as far as Tenasserim in what is now Myanmar. In each place, I saw how vast and diverse the world truly was—different gods, languages, and ideas, yet all bound by the need to trade and to tell stories.

Loss and ReturnNot all of my journey was triumph. Disease and hardship claimed my wife and several of our children. I carried their memories in my heart as I made my way back to Venice, traveling again through Bengal and Persia, returning at last by way of the Black Sea around 1444. I had left a man of questions—I returned a man of witness. I had touched lands no European had seen in generations, and my soul was heavy with wonder and grief.

The Legacy I SharedUpon my return, I found a world in transition. The fall of Constantinople was near, and Europe’s desire for direct trade routes was burning brighter. Pope Eugenius IV ordered me to share my knowledge, and I did—dictating my travels to the humanist Poggio Bracciolini. My accounts helped redraw the maps of our world. Though I had not claimed lands or sailed with fleets, my voice became a compass for those who would later chase the edge of the world.

What I Leave BehindI was not a conqueror nor a prince. I was a witness, a merchant, and a father. I crossed deserts and sailed seas not to rule, but to understand. Long before Columbus dreamed of crossing the Atlantic, I had wandered the roads that connected Venice to India, to Java, and beyond. Let others seek gold and glory—I offer stories and understanding. My journey was not one of flags, but of footsteps, each one driven by the hope that the world is far wider than we ever imagined. And it is.

Witness to the Fall of Constantinople and the Closing of Roads – Told by De’ Conti

In my youth, I left behind the lagoons and markets of my homeland to follow the ancient roads stretching east—roads that had once carried Marco Polo to the court of the Great Khan. I crossed the Levant in disguise, speaking Arabic and living as a Muslim merchant, not for betrayal but for passage. Through Damascus, Baghdad, Hormuz, and into the heart of India, I walked and sailed not only for profit, but for knowledge. I traveled not once, but for two decades, across the lands where the Silk Road pulsed like a hidden artery of the world.

The Eastern Wealth and the Return to VeniceIn India, I marveled at cities brimming with gold, spices, and learning. I traded in Calicut, observed courts in Vijayanagara, and passed through the ports of Bengal and Sumatra. My journey brought me home to Venice in the 1440s, richer not only in goods, but in understanding. The East was vast, ancient, and full of marvels—but the path back had grown harder. On my return, I began to notice a shift. Rumors spread through the caravan routes. Armies were moving. Fortresses were being strengthened. And always, the shadow of the Turks loomed larger.

The Fall of a GateIn 1453, the gateway between Europe and Asia shattered. Constantinople, for centuries the fortress of the Christian East, fell to the Ottoman sultan Mehmed II. I was not there at the moment of siege, but I had passed through its walls many times before—buying silk, exchanging coin, watching as Venetians and Genoese merchants filled the harbors. When it fell, a silence followed, one filled not with mourning, but with panic. The great land route to Asia, already threatened, was now choked by the iron grip of a new empire. Caravans slowed. Tariffs rose. Danger replaced predictability. For Europe, it was not merely the fall of a city—it was the closure of a gate.

Venice at a CrossroadsBack in Venice, I sat with other merchants who had traveled the East. The ships still came in, but fewer. The flow of spices, silks, and precious stones became uncertain. Our wealth was threatened. Genoa felt it too. Trade routes that had stood for centuries were now at the mercy of an empire that had little love for Latin Christendom. And though the Ottomans were clever and willing to deal in gold, the fear in Europe grew. The land route through the Levant, the old Silk Road, was no longer safe or reliable.

The Turning of Eyes to the SeaAnd so, the eyes of princes and merchants turned west—not to abandon Asia, but to reach it another way. The Portuguese looked to the southern ocean, sailing along the coast of Africa. Their goal was simple: find another road to the Indies, one that did not pass through hostile hands. Spain too, watching the tightening of trade, would soon take interest. Even the English, slow to stir, began to consider what might lie across the sea. The fall of Constantinople did not merely end an empire—it redirected the ambitions of all Europe.

What I Witnessed and What FollowedI was among the last who traveled the overland way with freedom. After me, the journey became more fraught, more dangerous, less certain. The Fall of Constantinople was a blow not just to Byzantium, but to every European who had dreamed of the East. Yet in that loss, something new stirred. My tales of India and beyond, recorded at the pope’s command, lit fires in the minds of those who would later sail instead of ride. I did not find a sea route, but I gave reason to seek it.

I am Niccolò de’ Conti, Venetian merchant and memory-keeper of a road now sealed. I walked the Silk Road as it faded, and I returned in time to see the winds of exploration rise from its ashes. Let no one say the end of one road is the end of discovery. Sometimes, it is only the beginning.

In the Footsteps of Marco Polo and the Spirit of Venetian Trade – Told by De’ Conti

Venice was not just my birthplace, it was the lifeblood of my purpose. The Republic thrived on trade, on negotiation, on boldness across borders. I grew up near the canals and warehouses that hummed with goods from every corner of the known world: saffron from the Levant, silk from China, pepper from India. It was here that I first heard the name Marco Polo, whose family once lived near mine, whose stories stirred the hearts of merchants and dreamers alike.

Learning from the LegendThough he had died before I was born, Marco Polo’s presence in Venice had not faded. His travels, dictated to Rustichello of Pisa in a Genoese prison, had become more than mere tale—they were a roadmap, a possibility. As a young man, I studied his route not only with fascination, but with intent. He had crossed into the court of the Great Khan; I wished to see if that world still breathed. While others in Venice turned their focus to the waning trade with the Byzantines and Mamluks, I turned eastward, toward India and beyond.

Across the Eastern RoadsDisguised as a Muslim merchant, fluent in Arabic, I traveled through the Levant and Persia into India and Southeast Asia. I passed through Hormuz, reached Cambay, Vijayanagara, and sailed to Bengal and Sumatra. In every marketplace, I saw Italians—not always from Venice, but also Genoese, Pisans, and Florentines. They worked not only as traders but as interpreters, bookkeepers, and emissaries. The trade networks built by our people did not vanish with the fall of a city or the change of a ruler. They adapted, shifted, stretched. I saw Polo’s ghost everywhere—in the silks of Cambaluc, in the measured manners of merchants bargaining in coastal ports, in the stories still told of a European who had once been called the Khan’s envoy.

A Tradition of ExchangeItalian merchants, especially Venetians, had long mastered the art of trade—not only in goods, but in culture. In every port I visited, I encountered men who spoke multiple tongues, who respected the laws of Islam while practicing their own faith quietly, who moved between currencies, customs, and climates with ease. This was the strength of the Italian trade tradition. Where other nations sent crusaders, we sent contracts. Where others imposed, we negotiated. This was what Marco Polo had done, and it was what I continued. Though the Mongol Empire that had once united much of Asia had fractured, the routes remained open, so long as one knew how to walk them carefully.

The Dimming of the RoadsYet I also saw signs that the age of overland trade was fading. Caravans grew slower, taxes heavier, and local rulers more suspicious of foreigners. Pirates harassed the Indian coast, and the Ottomans stirred near Anatolia. The world I had wandered through with relative freedom was becoming more difficult to navigate. I returned to Venice in the 1440s, knowing I had walked the edge of an era.

Preserving the LegacyUpon my return, I dictated my experiences to the papal secretary, Poggio Bracciolini, so that my knowledge might aid the future. I knew my journeys were not just my own—they were part of a continuum that stretched back to Polo and beyond. I had added my thread to a centuries-long tapestry of Italian exploration and exchange. What we Venetians had done for generations—build bridges through trade—we must now do across oceans.

I am Niccolò de’ Conti. I followed the path carved by Marco Polo, not in shadow but in stride. I did not conquer, but I connected. I did not discover, but I remembered. And I say to those who seek fortune: learn not only where the road goes, but who walked it before you. In their steps, you will find your map.

My Name is Henry the Navigator: My Life in the Age Before Columbus

I was born in 1394 in Porto, Portugal, the third son of King John I and Queen Philippa of Lancaster. As a royal child, I was surrounded by noble traditions and endless stories of conquest and discovery. My mother, an English princess, instilled in me the importance of knowledge and faith. Though I was not expected to become king, I felt a different calling. I was drawn not to court life, but to the ocean. The sea whispered possibilities to me. I knew early that my future would lie not on land, but in the great blue unknown.

The Spark of Ceuta

When I was twenty-one, my father led a campaign to seize the North African port city of Ceuta. I joined him. The experience changed everything. Ceuta was a gateway to the trade routes of gold, spices, and silks that came from deep within Africa and beyond. But I also saw that we, the Portuguese, knew so little about the lands that lay beyond the Sahara or the vast sea to the south. What more could we find if we dared to seek it? I returned to Portugal determined to explore, not to conquer by sword, but by sail and by study.

Sagres and My School of Navigation

After Ceuta, I withdrew from politics and founded a center for exploration at Sagres, on the southernmost tip of Portugal. Some would later call it a “school,” though it wasn’t a school in the modern sense. Instead, it was a gathering place—of cartographers, astronomers, shipbuilders, mathematicians, and seasoned sailors. I invited the best minds of Europe and the Muslim world. Together, we studied maps, improved the astrolabe, mastered the quadrant, and refined the compass. Our greatest innovation was the caravel—a small, fast ship that could sail against the wind and reach where others could not.

The Quest Southward

I never sailed on great voyages myself, but I sent others. Bit by bit, they pushed down the African coast. Each journey went a little farther, a little braver. First Cape Bojador, once thought to be the end of the world, then past Senegal and the Gambia. We sought knowledge, yes, but also gold, ivory, and the hope of Christian allies. I was obsessed with the legendary kingdom of Prester John—a powerful Christian king rumored to live somewhere in Africa or Asia. I dreamed of an alliance that could flank Islam and unite Christendom.

Faith and Empire

Many believe exploration was only about wealth. It was not. For me, it was a holy duty. I believed Portugal was chosen by God to spread the Christian faith. If we found new peoples, we would share the Gospel. If we met Muslim resistance, we would stand strong. My faith guided every decision I made—from choosing captains to funding missions. I lived simply, wore modest clothes, and spent most of my fortune supporting voyages that many at court considered foolish.

Legacy and the Atlantic World

I died in 1460, before my explorers had rounded the southern tip of Africa, and before Vasco da Gama reached India. But the path had been laid. The knowledge we gathered, the maps we drew, the ships we built—all of it made the Age of Exploration possible. Madeira, the Azores, and Cape Verde were settled during my lifetime, serving as stepping-stones for global exploration and the early plantation economy.

My Final Reflection

I never married. I had no children. My legacy was not in family, but in vision. I saw what others could not: that the sea was not a barrier, but a road. That maps could be rewritten. That the edge of the world was only the beginning. They called me Prince Henry the Navigator, though I preferred no grand title

The Birth of the Caravel and the Science of the Sea – Told by Henry

My blood ran with royal heritage, the son of King João I and Queen Philippa of Lancaster. Born in 1394, I grew up surrounded by tales of conquest and destiny, but my heart was drawn to the waves beyond the shore. Where others dreamed of thrones and battles, I dreamed of maps not yet drawn. I believed Portugal’s greatness would not be won through castles or courts, but through sails and stars.

The Vision at SagresAfter our victory at Ceuta in 1415, I saw firsthand the limits of land-bound expansion. North Africa opened a door to knowledge, but not enough. We needed to go farther—along the coasts of Africa, beyond the horizon, where trade, faith, and discovery waited. I withdrew from courtly life and established myself at Sagres, on the southwestern tip of Portugal. There, I gathered not soldiers, but thinkers. Mariners, cartographers, shipwrights, astronomers, mathematicians, and scholars—this was my army, and knowledge was our weapon.

Crafting the CaravelThe vessels of our time were slow and stubborn, built for rivers and short voyages. To chase the winds of the Atlantic and hug the wild African coast, we needed something new. At Sagres, I supported the creation of the caravel—small, swift, and sturdy. It could sail closer to the wind with its triangular lateen sails, turn quickly with its light hull, and carry enough provisions for long voyages without sacrificing maneuverability. It was not a ship born from conquest, but from adaptation, drawn from Arabic, Mediterranean, and Northern European influences. It became the flagship of a new age.

Tools of a New EraYet even the finest ship is blind without guidance. At Sagres, we studied and refined the tools of navigation. The astrolabe, brought to Europe from the Islamic world, was used to measure the height of the sun and stars. The quadrant was improved for maritime use. We collected and updated portolan charts, filled with coastlines and compass roses, recording every headland and harbor we found. Our pilots were trained to read the wind, the waves, and the heavens. No longer would sailors fear the open sea as a place of monsters or falling edges. We taught them to see it as a map waiting to be filled.

The First Voyages SouthWith caravels and charts in hand, we began to press down the African coast. My captains—men like Gil Eanes and Nuno Tristão—sailed farther than any had dared. Cape Bojador, once thought a barrier to the living, was passed. New lands, new peoples, and new trade opened to us. Each journey brought back more data, more confidence, more reasons to keep going. Portugal’s reach extended not through battle but through navigation, one league at a time.

Why It MatteredWhat we built at Sagres was more than a school. It was a turning point. We laid the groundwork for all that followed—for the rounding of the Cape of Good Hope, the voyage to India, and the crossing of the Atlantic. Though I did not live to see those triumphs, I knew they were coming. Knowledge is the tide that raises every ship. Without Sagres, without the caravel, without the tools to tame the sea, none of it would have happened.

My Name is João Gonçalves Zarco: Guardian of Islands and Gateways

I am João Gonçalves Zarco, son of Portugal and servant of the crown. I was born at the turn of the 15th century, in a time when kingdoms were restless and the horizon was not yet broken by sails. My youth was shaped by war and water, by the Reconquista's lingering thunder and by the sound of waves crashing on the unknown. I served under Prince Henry the Navigator, a man whose vision reached far beyond the mainland. Where others saw the ocean as an end, he taught us to see it as a beginning.

The Battle for Ceuta and the Dawn of DiscoveryIn 1415, I fought at the siege of Ceuta. We claimed the port from the Moors, a bold stroke that opened North Africa to Portuguese ambitions. Yet it was not gold or conquest alone that stirred us—it was what lay beyond. From Ceuta, we learned of caravans from the heart of Africa and distant coasts teeming with strange riches. Prince Henry believed we could find a sea route to the Indies. I believed him. And so began our quiet push into the Atlantic.

The Storm That Changed HistoryIt was in the year 1418, not far from the African coast, that fate twisted our path. A sudden storm blew our vessel far westward, away from the coast and toward a green mystery on the horizon. When the storm calmed, we found ourselves anchored near an island unknown to our maps. It was forested and wild, kissed by mist and silence. We had discovered Porto Santo. Later, with Prince Henry’s blessing, we returned to explore and settle the neighboring, larger island—Madeira.

Madeira: The Birth of a New WorldMadeira was no barren rock. It was fertile, cloaked in laurel forests and fed by mountain springs. With my fellow captains Tristão Vaz Teixeira and Bartolomeu Perestrelo, we began carving a new society from this untouched land. We built homes, churches, and water channels. We cleared forests with fire so intense it is said the island burned for seven years. The black ash enriched the soil, and soon we planted wheat, vines, and sugarcane. Madeira became a model for colonization—rich, productive, and deeply connected to trade.

A New Way of EmpireWhat we created on Madeira would shape the future. It was here that Portugal tested its system of planting, enslaving, and shipping. The sugar mills of Madeira ran on sweat—both free and enslaved. It was not a fact I celebrated, but one I could not deny. The island was a mirror of the empire to come, a training ground for what Spain, too, would one day attempt. Though I served Portugal, my actions echoed across the Iberian Peninsula. Castile and Aragon watched and learned. Long before Columbus set sail, we had mapped the sea lanes, tested the winds, and mastered the islands.

Reflections of a SettlerI was no prince, no famed voyager of distant continents. I was a pioneer of what was possible—not across the globe, but in shaping what lay just beyond the known. My hands cleared forest and planted crops. My eyes watched as the Atlantic became smaller and the maps became wider. I died in Funchal, the town I helped found, on the island I helped tame. But my legacy sailed on, in every ship that passed through Madeira’s port, bound for horizons yet unconquered.

I was Zarco—explorer, colonizer, and builder of new worlds. Where land met sea, I made a mark. Let those who follow remember: discovery does not begin with arrival. It begins with daring to drift into the storm.

Why We Sailed Toward the East – Told by Zarco

I did not live to reach India, nor did I set sail for Asia myself, but make no mistake—everything I did was for that purpose. Every wave I crossed, every island I claimed, every harbor I built—these were stepping-stones on the long path to the East. For in our time, India and Asia were not just destinations. They were treasure chests, temples, and triumphs waiting to be reached. To win the East was to win the world.

Why the East MatteredIndia was known for its spices—pepper, cinnamon, cloves—and spices were not luxuries in our kitchens, but the gold of the marketplace. They preserved our food, cured our illnesses, and flavored our wealth. Beyond spices, there were silks, gems, ivory, and a dozen other riches carried overland through the Middle East. But each trade route passed through Muslim-controlled lands, and every hand the goods touched added its toll. Europe paid dearly for Asia’s goods, and we Portuguese asked: why pay when we can sail? If we could reach India directly by sea, we could break the chokehold of the overland routes. We could trade freely, build our own posts, and rise above every rival—Genoa, Venice, even Castile.

The Sea as a SolutionThe land roads to the East were long, costly, and dangerous. Armies crossed them, but not fleets. But Portugal had mastered the sea. We had learned the winds, the currents, the stars. We had turned our coasts into launch points and our islands into resupply stations. Sailing to India was not madness—it was strategy. We were tracing the edge of Africa, pushing farther with every voyage. My part in this was modest, yet crucial. By settling Madeira, we proved that life could thrive beyond the continent. We tested sugar, navigation, and the planting of faith. We built confidence. When others doubted the sea, we lived upon it.

My Role in the Greater DreamI was not a discoverer of India, but I was a builder of the road to it. Prince Henry’s vision guided me, and I made it real in Madeira. I claimed land, carved ports, grew trade, and laid down stone foundations from which others would launch. I knew that Portugal could not conquer Asia by war, but it could win it through water. And I did all I could to shape the vessels, the men, and the maps that would one day reach it. I saw each island as a link in a chain—and the end of that chain led to the shores of the Indies.

The Goal Beyond GoldYes, there was wealth to be gained, and Portugal needed it. But the sea route to India meant more than coin. It meant control. It meant glory. It meant a Christian presence in the lands of the East, a counterbalance to the power of Islam, a way to show the world that a small kingdom on the edge of Europe could shape the fate of continents. For me, it was about legacy—not just mine, but Portugal’s. We would be the bridge between worlds. That was the ultimate goal.

A Life in Service to the Long RouteI am João Gonçalves Zarco. I never reached India, but I helped build the path to it. I cleared forests on an Atlantic island so others might one day walk on eastern shores. And in every decision I made—from where to build a chapel to how to shape a harbor—I carried the vision of an empire connected by sea. The East was far, but never beyond our reach. Not with ships. Not with faith. Not with time.

Edge of Empires—Atlantic Islands and the Future They Shaped – Told by Zarco

I served under Prince Henry the Navigator, a man whose dreams stretched beyond the horizon. In my youth, I sailed along the African coast, fought at Ceuta, and watched as Portugal's ambition shifted from crusade to exploration. It was not war alone that would make us great, but mastery of the sea. My task was not to conquer empires, but to prepare the way for one.

Cast Adrift and Blessed by FortuneIn 1418, during a routine mission along the African coast, my ship was caught in a violent storm. For days we were tossed by the waves until we saw, in the distance, a green island rising from the Atlantic mist. It was Porto Santo. Though uncharted by our maps, it was no myth, no dragon-guarded edge of the world. It was real, fertile, and full of promise. Prince Henry, hearing of our accidental discovery, sent us back to settle and explore further. And that is how I came to lead the expedition that uncovered the island of Madeira.

Madeira: A Laboratory for EmpireMadeira was unlike anything we had known—dense with laurel forests, fed by clear streams, and rich volcanic soil. But it was wild and thick, unfit for farming until we cleared it. We set fire to the trees, and the fire burned for years, enriching the earth with ash. We built settlements, levadas to carry water to fields, and stone houses against the Atlantic wind. With each year, the island transformed. Wheat grew where trees had stood. Grapes thrived in the hills. But the most important crop we brought was sugarcane.

The Birth of the Plantation SystemSugar was not new to the world, but in Madeira we gave it new purpose. It became a crop of industry, grown on large tracts of land, harvested and processed in mills, and exported to Europe where its sweetness fetched gold. But sugar required labor—more than the locals or settlers could provide. So we brought enslaved Africans to toil in the fields. This was the bitter root of something that would grow far larger. What began in Madeira—the plantation economy, monoculture farming, reliance on forced labor—would become the model used across the Atlantic in the centuries to come.

The Islands as Stepping-StonesMadeira was not the only island of value. To the south, Castilian and French forces vied for control of the Canary Islands, where the Guanche people resisted fiercely. To the west, the Azores would soon be discovered, offering more harbors and fertile lands. These islands were more than places to farm. They became waystations, ports of resupply for ships bound farther south or west. They were testing grounds—for crops, navigation, politics, and colonization. They taught us how to claim, hold, and profit from distant land.

What We Prepared ForI did not sail to India or stumble upon new continents, but my role was no less vital. What we did in Madeira taught Portugal how to build a colony. We learned what ships needed for long voyages, what crops could feed a settlement, what markets would pay for exotic goods. Our reports, our failures, and our successes all laid the foundation for what would come. When the time came to cross the Atlantic, the lessons were already written in the soil of these islands.

A Legacy in Stone and SoilI died in Funchal, the city I helped build, surrounded by fields that once stood as forest. I am João Gonçalves Zarco—explorer, settler, and founder of a future I would never see. The islands we claimed were small, but the path they opened stretched across oceans and centuries. The Atlantic was no longer a barrier. It had become a bridge.

My Name is Diogo Cão: At the Edge of the Known World

I am Diogo Cão, navigator of Portugal, emissary of King João II, and servant of the tide. I was born into a nation that had turned its eyes to the ocean, where each wave held a question and each gust of wind a promise. Though little is known of my youth, I was raised in the tradition of mariners—charting wind, learning currents, mastering the art of seamanship. The stories of Prince Henry the Navigator still lingered in the docks of Lisbon when I was young. I would become one of those who carried his dream southward, beyond the known.

The King’s MissionBy the 1480s, the Portuguese had rounded Cape Bojador and reached Sierra Leone, but the southern reaches of Africa remained cloaked in mystery. King João II, shrewd and ambitious, summoned me to sail farther than any man had gone before—to reach the kingdom said to lie beyond the rivers, to find riches and Christian allies, and to mark Portugal’s place on the map of the world. In 1482, I set sail for the unknown, leading two caravels beyond the edge of any European chart.

Stone Pillars and the Congo RiverI placed my first padrão—a stone pillar bearing the royal arms—at the mouth of a mighty river. We called it the Zaire. The people who lived there knew it as the Congo. It was no mere stream; it pulsed with life, trade, and kingdoms inland. We made contact with the local rulers, exchanging words, gifts, and glimpses of each other's world. Some were open to diplomacy, and I took several ambassadors with me back to Portugal, offering proof of our discovery and goodwill. It was not conquest we brought that day—but curiosity wrapped in the banner of the crown.

A Second Voyage SouthwardIn 1485, I was sent again. This time, we ventured even farther—along the coasts of modern-day Angola and Namibia. The shores grew harsher, the people more wary, and the maps emptier. I erected more padrões, permanent signs of Portugal’s presence in a land untouched by European feet. Each one marked a silent pledge: we were here, and we would return. But the sea, like fortune, turns quickly. On that voyage, I vanished—swallowed by the waves or perished ashore. The ocean that I had served so faithfully became my grave.

My Legacy Etched in Stone and MemoryThough I did not live to see the Cape of Good Hope or the distant Indies, my voyages were stepping stones to them. The padrões I left behind still stand, weathered by time but unmoved. I showed that the African coast did not end in myth or monsters, but in rivers, kingdoms, and people worthy of diplomacy and respect. My journeys helped chart the path for Bartolomeu Dias and later Vasco da Gama. And though my name does not ring as loudly as theirs, I was the one who pushed the line of the known world farther than it had ever gone.

I was Diogo Cão, a sailor without fear, an ambassador without armor, a cartographer without parchment. I served a king, followed the stars, and walked the shores of lands forgotten by maps. Remember me when you look upon a globe—between the lines, where certainty fades, you will find my story.

Charting the Unknown—Portugal's Path Along Africa's Edge – Told by Cão

I was among the first to trace the edges of the African coast with more than curiosity—I carried with me the seal of King João II and the will to uncover what lay beyond each turning cape. I was born into a generation raised on the visions of Prince Henry the Navigator, trained by men who had passed Cape Bojador, and I took their maps and pushed them farther. My life was wind, salt, and distance—a steady voyage southward along a continent that had long been whispered of, but never truly known.

From the Edge to the RiverIn the year 1482, I led two caravels beyond the furthest reach of any European ship. We passed the familiar ports of Senegal and Sierra Leone, already marked by Portuguese trade, and pushed into waters uncharted. Then we came upon the mouth of a mighty river, so broad and wild that it seemed to breathe. The people called it Nzadi, but we recorded it as the Zaire—the Congo River. It was no mere stream but the heart of a powerful inland realm. Here, we were not meeting isolated coastal bands but the Kingdom of Kongo, with its own rulers, traditions, and laws. We traded, spoke, and exchanged gifts. I took emissaries with me to Portugal, where they were received with honor. This was not conquest—it was contact.

Carving the Pillars of PortugalAt the Congo’s mouth, I raised a padrão—a stone pillar bearing the royal arms of Portugal. I set it in the earth as a marker of our arrival, a symbol of friendship and intent. It was not the first, nor would it be the last. With each voyage south, I planted more padrões, one by one, as the milestones of our creeping journey down Africa’s western edge. Each one stood as a quiet claim, a silent message to those who might follow: Portugal was here.

A Second Voyage, a Longer ReachIn 1485, I was sent again, this time with the goal of reaching even farther. My ships hugged the coast, observing every bend, every river, every village. We passed modern-day Angola and entered regions where the climate turned dry and harsh. Though the journey grew perilous, we marked new lands, met new peoples, and brought word of distant empires to Lisbon. Each harbor we entered brought new knowledge—some friendly, some guarded. But all helped us draw clearer lines on our maps. Portugal was no longer guessing what lay down the coast of Africa. We were documenting it.

Why Each League MatteredOurs was not a race, but a process. Each voyage built upon the last. With every port, we learned about local trade, climate, winds, and people. The goal was always the same: reach India by sea. But we could not leap there in one grand voyage. We moved like a tide—patient, deliberate, relentless. And in doing so, we built the blueprint for all that would come after. Trade routes followed our charts. Forts followed our landings. Colonies followed our reports.

The Ocean Took Me, But Not My PathI did not return from my second voyage. Somewhere beyond the Cape of Santa Maria, I disappeared—whether claimed by storm, disease, or hunger, I cannot say. But I knew the risks. Every league farther south meant greater uncertainty. Yet I sailed not for safety, but for discovery. I was not seeking to take, but to understand, to record, and to open paths.

The Line I DrewI was Diogo Cão, and I mapped the coast where maps had only silence. I spoke with kings whose names Europe did not know. I placed my pillars in lands where the sun fell heavy and the rivers ran deep. And though I did not live to see the Cape of Good Hope, my hand helped draw the route to it. My voyages were the quiet labor that made empire possible—one coastline, one conversation, one carved stone at a time.

At the Crossroads of Trade, Power, and Conscience – Told by Cão

I sailed not as a conqueror, but as an emissary—with orders to find the limits of lands, to open routes for trade, and to establish Portugal’s presence along the western shores of a continent long spoken of, but only lightly known. I placed stone pillars along coastlines, exchanged gifts with kings, and helped draw the true shape of Africa. But among these tasks was one less spoken of in the royal court and yet deeply rooted in every port we visited: the business of gold and the beginning of the trade in human lives.

The Gold of the CoastLong before my voyages, word had reached Portugal of a place called the Gold Coast. From camel caravans in the Sahara, through Moorish traders in Ceuta, came tales of rivers that carried gold dust, of empires rich in metal and power. This gold was the blood of kingdoms such as Mali and Ghana, and it had flowed northward for centuries. Portugal wanted to bypass the middlemen—to buy it at the source. As I sailed farther south along the coast, I reached regions where gold was indeed traded openly. The Kingdom of Kongo and other inland realms were part of this intricate web of commerce. Gold changed hands in markets with ivory, cloth, and salt. But as with any trade driven by profit, it came with darker demands.

The Emergence of a Grimmer ExchangeAlongside gold, we found another commodity—people. In some villages, prisoners of war were already traded among African kingdoms. But when we Portuguese began establishing permanent outposts, this existing trade took on a new dimension. Our ships returned to Lisbon not only with gold and spices, but with captives—men, women, and children—sold to us by local rulers or taken in raids. At first, they were few in number, but even then, I could see the shift. As the demand for labor in Portuguese farms and homes grew, so too did the reach of this trade. What had once been local and limited began to stretch outward, fueled by foreign gold and iron.

What I Saw, and What I FeltI am no priest, no philosopher. I was sent to explore, to mark territory, to build relations. But I saw the eyes of the chained. I saw children standing barefoot in the shadow of ships, unsure of where they were going or why. I knew these people had homes, languages, gods, and stories. And yet in the growing economy we helped to build, they were reduced to cargo. I do not claim innocence. I documented, I facilitated, and I served my king. But the weight of what we began was not lost on me. The pillars I raised marked a path not just for exploration, but for exploitation.

A Trade That Grew Beyond MeasureBy the time I vanished on my second voyage, the machinery had already begun. Portuguese ships were establishing regular routes. Trading posts grew into forts. Gold continued to flow, but it was soon eclipsed in value by enslaved labor. Madeira, then São Tomé, then lands across the sea—each would come to depend on the labor of those torn from their homes along the very coast I helped chart. We had opened a door, and others would fling it wide.

The Double Legacy of the CoastI was Diogo Cão, servant of discovery and agent of a complicated past. I brought maps where there had been questions. I built bridges between peoples—but some bridges became chains. The gold I helped trace became crowns. The lives traded under my flag became sorrow echoing for generations. I do not ask you to forgive what we began. Only to remember that those who sail forward must also look back. Every route carries more than cargo. It carries consequence.

The Seeds of the Treaty and the Division of the Atlantic – Told by Henry

Though I did not live to see the signing of the Treaty of Alcáçovas in 1479, I knew well the forces that would shape it. I died nearly two decades before that ink dried, but the ink flowed from maps we had already begun to draw, from voyages we had launched, and from rivalries we had kindled. I planted the seed, and the treaty was the fruit—bitter to some, sweet to others, but shaped by a vision I carried from my earliest days.

Before Borders Were Drawn on WaterIn my time, the world was still undefined. The Atlantic was a mystery, the African coast a shadow on the edge of imagination. I believed Portugal’s future did not lie in the dusty fields of Europe but in the open sea. I funded voyage after voyage down the coast of Africa—not in pursuit of land, but of knowledge, trade, and a passage to India. Our sailors pushed past Cape Bojador, found gold in West Africa, and planted the first colonial roots in Madeira and the Azores. These discoveries were not just for glory—they were markers of Portuguese presence, claims made not with swords but with sails.

The Rise of RivalrySpain—then Castile and Aragon—watched with growing unease. They too sought expansion. While we were rounding African capes, they were fighting their own war—the final phase of the Reconquista against the Moors of Granada. But they knew that once that war ended, their ships would rise. And they did. As I had predicted, Spain looked west, across the Atlantic, toward the Canaries and beyond. Portugal claimed the Canaries first, but Castile challenged us. We both built and burned. It was not a war of armies, but of ambitions. And those ambitions collided on the sea.

My Legacy in the Shadows of a TreatyThough I had died by 1460, the structure I left behind continued to guide Portugal’s strategy. The navigation school at Sagres had trained the men who would eventually round the Cape of Good Hope. The maps we compiled helped our diplomats argue that Portugal had priority in Africa and the islands of the Atlantic. When Castile’s war with Portugal ended and peace was sought, the Treaty of Alcáçovas did more than end a dynastic conflict—it divided the ocean. Castile would keep the Canaries. But everything south of them, including Madeira, the Azores, and the entire African coast, was recognized as Portuguese. It was not just a line—it was the recognition of Portugal’s mastery of the sea.

A World to DivideThis treaty would become the model for future divisions, including the Treaty of Tordesillas after Columbus. But Alcáçovas came first. It confirmed that the sea could be claimed like land, that the ocean was not free and open, but subject to crowns and compasses. It confirmed that my work had reshaped how nations thought about the world. Where once the edge of the map was a mystery, now it was a battleground—of charts, treaties, and dreams.

Why It Matters StillTreaty of Alcáçovas was signed without me, but it was born of what I began. It did not end competition—it merely postponed it. But it proved that the sea could be divided, and that Portugal had earned the right to the greater part of it through patience, vision, and courage. Let no one forget: before there were lines on the sea, there were sails on the wind.

Guided by Stars and by Faith - Told by Henry

My childhood was shaped by both sword and scripture. My father, a warrior of the Reconquista, had helped reclaim our lands from the Moors, and my mother, an Englishwoman of deep piety, taught us to read both the Bible and the world through the lens of duty and faith. From my earliest years, I saw no division between crown and cross. In the court, in the chapel, and later on the waves, I believed that we were part of a divine mission—one that stretched beyond borders and beyond our own time.

The Sea as a Sacred PathMany remember me for launching voyages down the African coast, for building the caravel, for charting what others feared. But what drove me was not wealth alone—it was salvation. I saw the sea not as a barrier, but as a bridge to souls yet unreached. In every voyage, I saw the possibility of spreading the Christian faith to distant peoples, to forge alliances with kings who worshipped Christ, and to push back against the growing strength of Islam. This was the spirit of the Crusades reborn—not with great armies, but with ships, sailors, and the Word of God.

The Search for Prester JohnLong had rumors circulated of a powerful Christian king living somewhere beyond the Islamic world, a man called Prester John. Some said he ruled in India, others whispered of Ethiopia or the heart of Africa. Whether myth or man, I believed he existed, and I believed he would be our ally. If we could find him, unite with him, and flank the Muslim world from both east and west, we could secure Christendom and open a path for the Gospel to flourish. Many of my voyages were guided by this hope—that beyond the deserts and jungles, there was a kingdom waiting for our friendship and our faith.

The Church in the Wake of ExplorationWhere our ships landed, so too went the cross. I ensured that priests were sent on expeditions. Churches were built on Madeira and the Azores. Converts were baptized, and catechisms were translated into local tongues. But I will not pretend the process was always peaceful. Some were brought to the faith by gentle teaching, others by force or fear. I believed that salvation justified great effort, even great cost. But even now, I wonder if the Gospel, in the hands of kings and merchants, was always delivered with the spirit Christ intended.

Faith and Empire IntertwinedAs the Portuguese crown expanded its reach, faith walked with it—sometimes in front, sometimes behind. Trade and conversion were often one and the same. A friendly chief might receive iron tools and the blessing of baptism in the same exchange. Yet for every soul we reached, we also opened new paths for greed and exploitation. I dreamed of souls saved, not lives enslaved. But once the sails were up and the ships returned with gold and captives, others began to see in my spiritual mission only the promise of empire.

What I Truly SoughtI did not live to see the Cape of Good Hope rounded or India reached by sea. I died in 1460, in my fortress at Sagres, gazing out toward the endless Atlantic. I did not find Prester John. I did not see the world converted. But I believed with all my heart that exploration was more than discovery—it was divine work. To bring light where there had been darkness, truth where there had been myth, and hope where there had been silence.

A Path Carved in Currents: Toward India by Sea – Told by Cão

I am Diogo Cão, servant of the Portuguese crown, explorer of Africa’s edge, and seeker of the path not yet found. In my lifetime, there was a single goal that loomed over all others—a sea route to India. The wealth of the East, its spices, silks, and jewels, had long flowed into Europe through difficult and dangerous overland trade. But that path had narrowed. With the fall of Constantinople in 1453, the land routes grew uncertain and expensive. Portugal, led by kings and guided by the vision of Prince Henry the Navigator, believed the answer was in the sea. And so, I was sent to push the boundary southward—one expedition at a time.

My First Voyage: The Congo’s CallIn 1482, I sailed south along the West African coast, beyond all previous charts, and came upon a river wide and mighty—the Congo. There we made contact with the Kingdom of Kongo, a thriving inland power with its own customs, order, and trade. This was no small discovery. It meant that Africa was not a wilderness to be skirted, but a continent of kingdoms to be navigated—both in geography and diplomacy. The Congo was a landmark, a milestone in our journey, and I placed a stone pillar there to mark the farthest point reached. The seas beyond whispered of more, and the maps of Lisbon began to stretch.

A Second Journey Into the UnknownThree years later, I was sent again. In 1485, I led another expedition farther down the coast, reaching the shores of modern Angola and Namibia. The land grew dry, the currents swifter, and the winds unpredictable. But we endured, marking the coast with more stone padrões—each one a sign of progress, each one a message to the future. We were not yet at the southern tip, but we knew it existed. The African coast began to bend eastward, and with every new harbor, we hoped to glimpse the turning point that would lead us toward India.

Preparing the Way for OthersI did not live to complete the journey. I vanished before my final voyage returned, but my maps and my records did not. They returned to Portugal, were studied by captains and kings, and became the foundation for what came next. Bartolomeu Dias would take those same waters and finally round the Cape of Good Hope in 1488. A decade later, Vasco da Gama would follow the curve of that same coast, guided by charts we first drew, and reach the shores of Calicut, India, in 1498. My role was not to arrive, but to prepare the way—stone by stone, tide by tide.

Why the Journey MatteredTo find India by sea was more than a trade ambition. It was a test of endurance, of courage, of how far the human spirit would stretch when guided by purpose. Every journey south brought new winds, new dangers, and new doubts. But each voyage also brought answers—currents that returned, stars that repeated their paths, and people who shared stories of other lands just beyond reach. In time, these fragments became a route.

A Life in Service to the PathI was Diogo Cão. I did not find India, but I helped make it reachable. I did not cross the Indian Ocean, but I brought Europe one horizon closer. My hands lifted the sails that caught the winds of history. Let it be known that the route to India was not found in a single voyage, but in many. And mine was one of them. A route to India was carved not in a straight line, but in hope, hardship, and unbroken resolve.

Through the Veil of Maps—The World Before Columbus – Told by De’ Conti

I lived in an age perched between memory and myth. My city, built on water and commerce, taught me early that maps were as much hope as knowledge. And so, I set out—not only to trade, but to learn, to walk the lands Marco Polo once described, and to see with my own eyes what Europe still pictured only in words and legend.

Walking Through the Known and the UnknownFrom the early 15th century, I spent over twenty years in the East, disguised as a Muslim merchant, fluent in Arabic, riding the caravan trails of Persia, sailing the coasts of India, and resting in the courts of kings from Cambay to Java. I saw golden temples, astronomical observatories, spices stacked like treasure, and ships greater than any built in Venice. I marveled at the cosmopolitan cities of Bengal and the layered kingdoms of Southeast Asia. Yet when I returned to Europe, I found that most still imagined these places through the veil of tales.

Cathay, Cipango, and the Misty EastTo most Europeans in 1491, the world beyond Persia was dreamlike. China was still called Cathay, remembered from Polo’s descriptions of the Great Khan’s court, though its rulers had changed and its gates had closed. Cipango—what we now call Japan—was spoken of as a land of gold-roofed palaces and endless pearls, a distant island kingdom rich in wealth and mystery. Few had seen it. Fewer still knew if it truly existed as described. But its name was written large on maps, just out of reach of the known coasts.

The Beasts of the MarginsThe edges of medieval European maps were cluttered with warnings and wonders. Monstrous races were said to live in the unknown—men with dog heads, one-legged tribes who hopped through the heat, giants with no mouths, and women with faces on their chests. These were not jokes but serious entries in the catalog of what lay beyond. They filled the spaces where knowledge had not yet arrived. And though I had never seen such creatures, I could not fully blame those who believed. The world was vast, and Europe still understood so little of it.

A Shrinking Map, A Growing WorldBy 1491, just before Columbus sailed west, the world known to Europe was far larger than it had been in my youth, yet still incomplete. The Mediterranean and parts of Africa were well charted. The Silk Road was remembered more than traveled. The Indian Ocean was whispered of but rarely seen by Christians. Most believed the world was round, but its size was debated wildly. Some said Asia could be reached by sailing west. Others believed impassable seas or burning zones barred the way. I had walked through truths, yet I returned to a continent still caught in legend.

What I Tried to ShareUpon my return, I dictated my knowledge to the papal secretary, Poggio Bracciolini, so it might aid those who followed. I corrected what myths I could. I described cities that did not float, people who were not monstrous, and routes that truly crossed lands and seas. But it was not easy to challenge imagination. Stories are stubborn, and legends comforting. Still, my words joined those of Polo, of Mandeville, and of every traveler who brought light into shadow.

The Edge Before the LeapI am Niccolò de’ Conti, and I walked through the world that Europe had only dreamed of. I returned with truth, but the maps still whispered fantasies. In 1491, Europe stood at the edge of an ocean and of understanding. The world was about to grow all at once, but before it did, it was a place of guesses, of longing, of monsters and gold islands. And I—who had seen the real East—stood between myth and memory, watching the sails begin to rise.

The Ocean Has Its Limits: Why I Disregarded Young Columbus – Told by Zarco

I do not speak as a dreamer, but as a man who has measured coastlines with his feet and storms with his soul. I helped tame wild islands, mapped unfamiliar winds, and turned unbroken forest into fields of wheat and cane. I have seen what lies just beyond the known—and what happens when one steps too far into the unknown. So when the young Genoese came to the court with his bold talk of sailing west to reach India, I listened not with awe, but with caution.

A Stranger with Grand IdeasHe called himself Cristoforo Colombo, though he spoke in many tongues—part Italian, part Portuguese by marriage, part Spanish in ambition. He had eyes like flint and words that danced with conviction. He claimed that Asia could be reached not by rounding Africa, as we had labored so long to do, but by crossing the western sea directly. A shorter route, he said. A surer one. A new path to the Indies. I watched him unfold maps and theories, pulling from ancient texts, sailors’ tales, and the misunderstood whispers of scholars who had never stepped on deck. He spoke of Cipango and Cathay as if they were a few weeks’ sail away—mere dots beyond the waves I had spent my life studying.

Why I Could Not Trust the WestI had seen the Atlantic’s nature. I had felt its silence when the wind died and its rage when the wind screamed. I had watched caravels vanish beneath its weight. The currents we knew, the winds we trusted, they all carried us south and back again—along the coast of Africa, along the path Prince Henry had carved with patience and calculation. To abandon that, to throw oneself westward into uncharted ocean based on arithmetic and legend, seemed reckless. I had mapped real places, built real ports, negotiated with real kings. Colombo offered none of that—only promises built on guesses.

The Price of ArroganceI do not doubt his courage. The sea favors the bold. But there is a line between courage and madness. I had led men through storms and against rocky shores. I had watched good sailors break under fear. To lead them west, into the deep blue void where no coastline could guide them, no trade winds could return them—this was to ask for ruin. I feared not failure for myself, but for Portugal. We had invested so much in the route around Africa. To turn now toward the unknown was to risk all we had gained for the sake of one man’s certainty.

What I Said, and Why It Was IgnoredI warned the court. I said that the sea west of the Azores grew cruel and trackless. I said that if India could be reached that way, others would have done so long ago. The Atlantic is wide not just in distance, but in mystery. The currents we knew circled endlessly, but none returned from the west. My words were heard with respect but carried little weight among those eager for glory. They wanted a miracle. Colombo gave them one.

What Became of His DreamEventually, Spain took him in. Let them have him, I thought. If he succeeded, it would be Castile’s banner that found Asia. But I suspected he would find nothing but sea and shipwreck. In time, I would hear rumors that he had indeed found land—not Asia, but something else. Still, I did not rejoice or weep. My work was done in stone and soil, in maps drawn with salt and blood. Let others chase shadows on the horizon. I had built something real.

I am João Gonçalves Zarco. I do not mock ambition, but I do not follow it blindly. The sea is not kind to pride. And while the world may yet prove larger than I imagined, I remain anchored to what I have seen, not what others only dare to dream.

My Name is Jean de Béthencourt: Lord of the Canary Conquest

I am Jean de Béthencourt, born in 1362 in the land of Normandy, France. I came from a noble house, the son of a lord with holdings in Grainville-la-Teinturière. As a boy, I was trained in the ways of war and rule, but I found myself dreaming of places beyond France—of islands in the sea, of fame won not on the battlefield of Europe but in the wild, uncharted lands whispered of in travelers’ tales. Though the Hundred Years’ War shook my homeland, I longed to look outward, beyond the horizon, to find a kingdom of my own.

From Court to CoastAs a young man, I served in the court of King Charles VI and was even a chamberlain to the Duke of Orléans. Yet courtly life grew dull. I yearned for action, for a legacy carved into something grander than halls and scrolls. I sold many of my possessions, outfitted ships in La Rochelle, and sailed south in 1402—not as a soldier for a king, but as a knight with a vision: to claim and Christianize the Canary Islands.

Landing in the Canary IslandsThe Canary Islands had long been known to European sailors, but they remained untamed, held by the Guanches—fierce and proud indigenous people. I arrived on Lanzarote with a modest force, only around 280 men, including my chaplain and chronicler, Pierre Bontier. We came under the flag of Castile, for I had sworn fealty to King Henry III of Castile in exchange for backing. Though I was French, the mission had become one of both religion and allegiance. I was granted the title "King of the Canary Islands," but I would have to earn that claim through battle and diplomacy.

The Conquest BeginsOn Lanzarote, we met Guanche resistance. They were strong, their fighters skilled with stones and courage. Yet our iron, our horses, and our tactics overcame them. With time and negotiation, we claimed much of the island. Then we turned to Fuerteventura and El Hierro. There, the fight was harder. Many of my men perished, and we faced betrayal and desertion. Yet, over years of struggle and negotiation, we extended our influence. My cousin Gadifer de La Salle played a crucial role, though our partnership was strained by rivalry and ambition.

Faith and FoundationI did not come only for conquest. I came to convert. My priests baptized Guanche leaders and brought Latin rites to islands untouched by the cross. Churches rose where there had once been stone circles. Some came to the faith willingly; others were brought by the sword. I saw myself as a Christian knight fulfilling a holy mission—but even I, at times, wrestled with the cost.

A Kingdom Handed OnBy 1418, age and illness called me home to Normandy. I left my nephew Maciot de Béthencourt to govern the islands. Though my conquest was incomplete, and other islands like Tenerife remained fiercely independent, the foundation was laid. The Canary Islands would become stepping-stones for empires—Spain’s future path to the New World began where my ships once anchored. I died a few years later, in my homeland, far from the black sands I had claimed.

My Legacy Among the WavesI was not a king in the castles of France, but in the volcanic highlands of Lanzarote. I ruled not by birthright, but by vision, daring, and steel. My story is not as grand as those who followed—Columbus, Magellan, Cortés—but I was among the first to take Europe beyond its shores and into the Atlantic world. I was Jean de Béthencourt, the French knight who conquered for Castile, not for gold or glory alone, but to leave behind something lasting where sea meets sky.

A Frenchman’s Perspective on the Isles of Destiny - Béthencourt

I am Jean de Béthencourt, Norman knight and early conqueror of the Canary Islands. Though my sword served Castile, I remained French at heart and Christian in purpose. In the early 1400s, I sailed to the Canaries with little more than men, faith, and ambition. What I discovered, and what followed in the decades after, would shape the path of empires. The Atlantic islands—Madeira, the Azores, and the Canaries—were not simply scattered stones in the ocean. They were keys. And my fellow explorer João Gonçalves Zarco, a man of Portugal, would prove just how powerful these keys could be.

Zarco and the Founding of MadeiraZarco, blown off course by storm and fate, stumbled upon the island of Porto Santo in 1418. Soon after, he and his companions discovered Madeira—an island cloaked in thick laurel forests and misty mountains. While I carved Castile’s name into the Canaries, Zarco laid the foundation of Portugal’s presence in the Atlantic. But Zarco did not merely land and leave. He returned. He settled. He burned back the forests and turned the ash into soil. Where there had once been wilderness, he and his men built roads, homes, and fields. They made Madeira a laboratory of empire.

The Experiment of AgricultureOn Madeira, Zarco and the Portuguese tested ideas that would later cross oceans. Wheat, first planted to feed the settlers, was soon joined by vineyards and orchards. But the greatest transformation came with sugarcane. Introduced in the 1430s, it took to the volcanic soil like fire to dry wood. Processing sugar required labor, capital, and coordination. It was not a farmer’s crop—it was an industry. And so, mills were built. Laborers were brought, some free, many enslaved. From this narrow island came the first model of the plantation system that would soon spread to Brazil and the Caribbean.

Strategic Havens and Stepping-StonesMadeira was not alone. The Azores, discovered to the northwest, and the Canaries, which I had helped claim for Castile, each played a role in this Atlantic chessboard. These islands offered fresh water, fertile ground, and harbors for ships venturing farther south along the African coast or west into uncharted seas. The Canaries were closer to Africa and contested between kingdoms. Madeira became a jewel of Portuguese power. The Azores, isolated but vital, completed the triangle of dominance. These islands were training grounds—for navigation, for colonization, and for the kind of expansion that did not stop at the shoreline.

From Experiment to EmpireZarco, in his quiet work on Madeira, helped prove that European life could thrive beyond the continent. He showed how an island could be transformed by will, labor, and ships. He did not set out to shape the future of colonization, but he did. When Columbus would later sail from Palos, when fleets would depart for India and Brazil, they would rely on the lessons learned from Zarco’s Madeira. Sugar, slaves, and sails—these were the three pillars upon which future colonial economies would rest. And they were tested first in these Atlantic isles.

Reflections of a Fellow ConquerorAs one who led the conquest of the Canaries, I watched Zarco’s work with a mix of respect and rivalry. Where I fought fierce Guanche warriors and struggled to hold the land, Zarco cultivated his with patience and foresight. He was not only a captain but a founder. He understood that an island was more than land to be claimed—it was soil to be shaped, people to be governed, and a harbor for ships yet to come.

I am Jean de Béthencourt. I stood at the edge of the known world and claimed land in the name of Christ and crown. But it was João Gonçalves Zarco who showed what came next. In Madeira’s fields and forests, he planted the seeds of an empire. The Atlantic islands were not the end of Europe. They were its beginning.