Chapter 1

The Atlantic air blew with such intense ferocity that, as it struck the sails, it seemed as if the very fibers of linen resisted being tamed by nature.

The roar of the wind echoed through the rigging of the Templar caravels, making the structures vibrate like the strings of a forgotten musical instrument.

Under the golden light of a waning sun, three imposing state-of-the-art vessels—the Santa Helena, the Guardian of the Cross, and the Star of the Temple—swayed with majestic disdain over the vast expanse of the ocean, sailing like titans in their struggle against the sea.

The ocean, in its endless indifference, did not seem willing to grant them any favor.

The ships, whose design had been perfected over generations of Templar maritime research, were a testament to the naval engineering of the time.

Their hulls, formed by layers of noble woods such as oak and Nordic pine, were reinforced using assembly techniques that only the most learned shipwrights of the Mediterranean coast could execute with such mastery. These woods not only granted solidity to the vessels but also ensured resistance against the deterioration caused by salt and moisture, guaranteeing durability on their long voyages. The prow of each ship, adorned with delicate carvings of mythological figures, seemed to defy both wind and sea, as if invoking the protection of ancient gods.

On the deck of the Santa Helena, Grand Master Alaric de Beaujeu stood tall, gazing at the horizon with a somber expression. His eyes, sharpened by years of battle and strategy, scanned the vast ocean in search of some sign, some indication of land.

The sun, on the verge of setting, bathed the sky in hues of crimson and gold, but there was no time for contemplation.

The navigation charts, created with geometric meticulousness rivaling the works of Ptolemy, were spread out on a wooden table that creaked with every wave striking the hull.

With the precision of an ancient mathematician, the coordinates had been calculated using the latest corrections from the Arab astronomer Al-Farghani, whose observations on longitude and latitude in the region had been essential for their planning.

The magnetic compass—an invaluable treasure seized during the Crusades, known to only a few masters—rested in the Grand Master's firm hands. Its needle, seeming to dance under the influence of the planet's magnetic poles, pointed to a clear course: absolute west. There was no margin for error. Based on his calculations, factoring in the fleet's average speed of 4.5 knots per hour and an estimated distance of 3,200 nautical miles to the mysterious island they had identified, they would arrive in less than two months. However, every mile traveled was a risk.

The voyage across the Atlantic Ocean was not just a physical challenge.

Any miscalculation in speed or current variations could lead them into dangerous deviations—toward an uncertain fate in a sea where storms could become invisible enemies.

The officers' conversation, a constant murmur barely audible over the wind's roar, revolved around preparing the fleet for the next phases of their journey.

The master cartographer, Pierre de Blainville, a man whose face was weathered by sun and storm, began debating with the chief pilot about the need to slightly adjust their course, as his observations indicated a slight misalignment with the plotted route. Beaujeu's estimate was firm, but the fear of deviation, however minor, was an enemy that could not be ignored.

"If the correction is incorrect," Blainville said gravely, "we could lose up to ten degrees of latitude, which would take us, if we do not act quickly, into unknown waters. We are near the latitude of the Azores, but we cannot rely on the wind being favorable at all times."

The Grand Master frowned. "Then we will adjust the mainsail and apply more pressure to the rudder. We cannot afford deviations. Our mission is not just survival—it is strategy."

The chief pilot, a hardened man who had spent more time at sea than on land, nodded as he observed the compass.

The mathematical precision of their calculations was what kept them on course, yet they knew that nature was an opponent that never yielded without a fight.

The sails were adjusted, and the wind, which had briefly relented, raged once more—challenging human engineering with its uncontrollable power. Yet destiny was sealed: if Alaric and his men's calculations were correct, they would cross the ocean and reach lands yet unmapped, defying not only the French Crown but also the dark forces lurking in the shadows of medieval Europe.

"May God guide us in this trial imposed by these sinners," murmured the Grand Master as he meticulously maneuvered his bronze astrolabe—an ancient yet reliable instrument used to measure the height of the stars above the horizon. With each movement, his hand adjusted the graduated sphere, using the sextant to calculate latitude with an accuracy that, at the time, only the finest navigators dared to achieve. The nearest star, Polaris, was just above the horizon, indicating that their position was stable and secure—though the journey was far from over.

From the stern, Brother Roger de Montfort approached, his face marked by the harshness of the salty wind, and the weight of his words accentuated by the gravity of the situation.

"Master," he began gravely, "the winds have shifted slightly to the southwest, and if we continue on this course, the ocean currents will carry us into more complicated routes. If the estimates of the Muslim cartographers are correct, we could encounter a series of countercurrents that, rather than accelerating us, would significantly extend our voyage."

The Grand Master lifted his gaze, staring into the endless stretch of sea before them—an expanse that seemed to devour any hope of speed. He took a moment before responding, evaluating both the course and the currents. "How much time would this deviation add? We are supposed to have enough provisions for a month, but… if this wind alters our course, we cannot leave ourselves to chance."

"If the Gulf Stream is as powerful as the Arab maps suggest, it could push us off course considerably," Roger continued, adjusting his tunic to keep it from the moisture. "My calculations indicate that we could lose up to fifteen days if we do not correct our direction. The current pulls southward at a speed of roughly three knots—over five kilometers per hour, according to the calculations of the geographer al-Muqaddasi. This would mean a significant delay for our mission. It is not just a matter of distance, but of critical timing."

The Grand Master frowned. He knew that these figures, though not exact, came from maps that combined astronomical observation with complex studies on the dynamics of water.

Brother Roger, with his knowledge of currents, had learned to read the ocean's behavior with nearly the precision of a mathematician.

Indeed, the calculations were not so different from the spherical trigonometry that astronomers used to determine the distance of celestial bodies—a principle he was familiar with, but now applied to maritime navigation.

"We need to adjust the sails immediately. If the southward drift is this pronounced, our plans to reach the Levantine coasts before the spring equinox are in serious jeopardy," the master replied, raising his index finger to the wind blowing from the southwest. "How precise is this change, brother?"

"Almost two degrees per hour, considering the wind's rotation and potential variations due to air temperature at high altitudes," Roger said, consulting an ancient parchment covered with his own annotations. "If we correct our course northwestward, adjusting the sail angle by about ten degrees, we could counteract the current's force. The compensation will be slight but significant in the long run. If we continue without altering our trajectory, the positional deviation could become more severe than any storm."

The master nodded, knowing that Roger's calculations were not only precise but also essential in preventing a tragedy. In that moment, mathematics was no longer just a set of abstract formulas—it was a survival tool, as vital as the swords and armor the men aboard carried.

"Adjust the sails as soon as possible," the master ordered. "Time waits for no one, and every moment lost is another blow to our objective. War awaits us, and we cannot afford further delays."

With the sound of the wind in the masts and the creaking of the ship's ropes, the crew got to work, fully aware that they were not only sailing across a physical ocean but also navigating the perilous waters of a dangerous and urgent mission.

The Grand Master nodded slowly, a slight frown of concern crossing his face.

In his eyes lay the weight of the responsibility he bore upon his shoulders.

Every decision, every order he gave, was a matter of life and death.

One mistake could mean doom not only for himself but for the 400 men still under his command.

Those who remained were a diverse mix of knights, squires, and sailors—men hardened by years of struggle and hardship, but also by the scars of a war that had stripped them of their lands, homes, and, in many cases, hope.

The provisions aboard were nothing more than a meager abundance. There was enough salted meat, dry biscuits, and barrel water to keep them alive, but their resources were depleting rapidly.

The fragile balance between hunger and survival was, in itself, a daily battle.

They knew these supplies would not last forever.

If they did not find a solution soon, starvation could prove as devastating as the enemy's weapons.

In his mind, the Grand Master envisioned his men—soldiers without a homeland, persecuted for their faith, for gold, and for the pursuit of a new Eden.

Men who had once been warriors under the Templar cross, sworn in loyalty to God and the cause, but now, in exile, far from the lands they once possessed, were forced to reconsider their purpose.

No longer did they bow to the Kings of Europe or the Princes, but to their own survival and the dream of forging a new destiny in distant lands.

Jean de Carcassonne, the mathematician assigned as the expedition's chronicler, stood aside, immersed in calculations.

Though he was not a man of war, his skill with numbers was crucial for the fleet's survival. He held his abacus with the dexterity of one who had not only studied the arts of arithmetic but also the most advanced principles of geometry and astronomy—disciplines he had learned under the guidance of the greatest mathematicians of his time.

As the sound of the wind and waves filled the air, Jean leaned over a wax tablet, his gaze fixed on the symbols he was tracing.

"If we maintain a constant speed of 3 knots, accounting for the resistance of the sails against the wind and the friction of the currents, and manage to ration supplies by 10%, we could stretch our provisions to last 75 days without relying on fishing," Jean said, his voice calm, though his mind was in constant motion, like a cogwheel. "The angle of the sails and the wind direction are critical factors. According to the latest astronomical observation, the prevailing winds in this region blow from the north at a speed of 15 kilometers per hour, which would allow us to advance without much resistance."

The Grand Master frowned, weighing Jean's words, knowing that the science and mathematics of their time, though rudimentary, could be their best allies in this struggle for survival.

"What if the winds do not favor us?" he asked firmly. "What if we fail to maintain that speed?"

Jean did not hesitate. "In that case, we should seek out intermediate islands to resupply. According to the maps and navigational records, there are several scattered islands along our route, but we must be cautious. The distances between them are considerable, and if we do not find a sufficient source of water or food on any of them, our resources will run out quickly."

The Grand Master nodded, his eyes reflecting the weight of the decisions he had to make.

"So, what we have before us is a race against time," he murmured. "A race that depends not only on our skills as warriors but on our ability to understand and adapt to forces beyond our control."

The men on deck were tense, staring at the horizon. They knew that luck, as always, played a crucial role in war, but they also knew that the ability to read and comprehend the world around them could be as vital as the steel of their swords.

"Survival depends on foresight. Alert the other ships—we will change course immediately," Alaric ordered with a firmness that cut through the tense air of the deck. His voice, a blend of authority and concern, rose above the creaking of the sails and the constant pounding of the waves.

The navigational calculations had been made beforehand, but the winds and currents—unpredictable in this part of the ocean—could ruin any plan. The angles of the wind, measured through the 32-point nautical compass, indicated that altering the course was essential to avoid the unknown waters of the coast. The navigation chart had been drawn with mathematical precision, but the drift calculations, based on the principles of trigonometry and spherical navigation, left room for danger.

"The error in our position is approximately three degrees east, placing us more than 30 nautical miles off the intended course," he murmured to himself as his hands traced the maps, his fingers calculating in his mind.

At that very moment, night descended upon them with terrible majesty, a darkness that seemed to swallow even the faintest glimmer of light.

The Milky Way, that dazzling band of stars, stretched above them like a mantle of unexplored mysteries. The constellations, known only to astronomers and seasoned sailors, provided a precise measure of the time that had passed. The distances between the stars, calculated centuries before by Greek mathematicians, now seemed like a guide that Alaric used to reinforce confidence in his decisions.

Each light in the sky was a reminder of the vast and unpredictable universe they navigated. On deck, the Templars—men of steel and faith—recited prayers in Latin, the echo of their voices vibrating through the night mist.

As they sharpened their swords, the reflection of the keen blades seemed to merge with the stars.

Their crossbows, adjusted with precision, awaited the moment of action. They knew that war never abandoned them, even in the open waters of the ocean.

It was not only the Arab legends of distant islands filled with savages that troubled them but also the presence of Muslim corsairs lurking in the shadows, seeking Christian prey.

The beads of their rosaries slipped through their fingers, counted as if each represented a battle yet to be fought.

Suddenly, a cry shattered the stillness of the night.

"Light on the horizon!" The voice was filled with alarm, resonating among the Templars like a deep echo. The refraction of light, an optical phenomenon studied since ancient times, played its role in the perception of what lay before them. Alaric's eyes narrowed as he observed the faint glow rising beyond the horizon, adjusting his vision as if he could calculate the distance based on the curvature of the Earth—considering the principle of heliocentrism, already accepted by many in Europe but still difficult for all sailors to grasp.

Alaric felt his chest tighten—a sensation that was not just physical but an emotional weight.

If it was land, if the calculations were correct and that was the promised island, the journey would have been worth it, no matter the sacrifices made along the way.

But if they were hostile sails, battle was inevitable.

The mathematics of probability for such an encounter, calculated alongside his navigation officer, pointed to a 35% chance of encountering enemies, based on known trade routes and reports of piracy in the area.

The silence of the crew was broken only by the whisper of the wind and the creaking of the wood beneath their feet.

The fate of the last Templars—the knights who fought not only for faith but for survival—was about to be revealed.

The battle strategy, based on the use of naval artillery and close combat formations, had already been discussed in private. The use of lateen sails for high-speed maneuvering, combined with 12-pound cannons, could be their only advantage against a numerically superior enemy.

'Ballistics will be key,' Alaric thought, recalling the trajectory formulas that naval engineers applied in their designs.

The tension between death and glory was defined in that moment, and the wind began to blow with greater force, as if the ocean itself foresaw what was about to unfold.