Dawn crept over the edge of the world, casting golden light across the rugged cliffs and rolling hills of Sagres. The sea below shimmered like polished steel, and waves broke rhythmically against the dark rocks, whispering secrets only sailors and gods could understand.
Far from the heart of the small coastal town—where fishermen hauled nets and monks shuffled between chapel and garden—stood a modest two-story home nestled near the cliffs. It overlooked the ocean with quiet confidence, a solitary sentinel against wind and time.
The house was built of pale limestone and dark, polished wood, the kind that creaked softly with each gust from the sea. The first floor, sturdy and cool, was made entirely from stone, while the upper level was timber-framed, latticed with windows that caught the morning light like bits of stained glass. A low white fence circled a modest garden filled with hardy herbs, squat vegetables, and a few stubborn flowers clinging to life in the salty air.
It was the kind of place that felt old—even if it wasn't—because it had to be. Wind, water, and solitude aged everything here.
Inside, at a rough-hewn wooden table in the sunlit kitchen, a family of three sat in silence.
Jesus, the father—broad-shouldered and thick-fingered, with a face bronzed by salt and wind—was halfway through gutting a piece of pickled mackerel with his knife. He worked slowly, precisely, the same way he carved hulls and fitted masts. Across from him sat Mary, straight-backed and severe, her greying hair tucked tightly under a linen wrap. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, eyes closed in silent reverence even after grace had been spoken.
And between them sat Marino.
He was barefoot, elbows on the table, and visibly trying not to fidget. The warm, briny air coming through the shutters felt strangely familiar to him—comforting, almost. But nothing else did.
This is so weird, he thought, eyes scanning the table. This is beyond weird.
Despite the modest means of the household, the table was generously laid: boiled cabbage, pickled onions, black olives, hunks of smoked fish, fresh goat cheese, and slabs of coarse brown bread. In a wooden bowl sat several hard-boiled eggs, slightly overcooked and still flecked with soot. Off to the side, strips of dried lamb rested next to a clay pot of honey.
All of it looked fresh. All of it looked... untouched.
And not because no one was eating—but because no one had done anything to it.
Marino stared in quiet horror as his parents—his new parents—methodically consumed each item as if it were sacred on its own. A bite of fish. A bite of bread. An olive. A sip of rainwater from a clay cup. Repeat. It was like watching people chew on puzzle pieces instead of building the actual puzzle.
Where's the flavor? The creativity? Hell, where's the salt?
To be fair, the food wasn't bad. It was just aggressively bland. Humble. Unassuming. Like a culinary performance of humility and piety.
He glanced up at Mary, who was now silently chewing a raw radish with her eyes closed, savoring the bitterness like it was wine. Jesus, meanwhile, was trying to sneak a second helping of smoked fish while his wife wasn't looking. Marino almost smiled at that.
Still, it was like his soul wept. This was the kind of food that could be great—but wasn't. Not because it couldn't be, but because nobody had ever tried.
It was then that Marino, Lieutenant of the United States Navy in another life and now a twelve-year-old Portuguese shipwright's son, decided that enough was enough.
He reached for the bread knife.
Carefully, like a man on a holy mission, he sliced open a thick chunk of the crusty loaf. Then he layered it—first the fish, flaking and still warm, then the dried lamb, torn into rough strips. He slathered on a bit of goat cheese, topped it with chopped cabbage, and crushed an olive with the butt of the knife before adding that too. For balance, a drizzle of honey.
The result wasn't neat, but it didn't need to be.
It was a sandwich. And for Marino, it might as well have been a divine revelation.
He picked it up with both hands and took a massive bite.
His eyes rolled back in his head as the flavors hit—salt, sweet, sour, fat, crunch, chew. Pure, natural ingredients. No additives. No preservatives. No plastic tray or government-issued rations. This was Earth-food in its most elemental form. And he had just elevated it.
He let out a groan—half delight, half unintentional. Something between a growl and a purr. It was far too loud for the quiet room.
Mary's eyes shot open. Jesus froze mid-chew.
"What," Mary said slowly, eyes narrowing, "was that noise?"
Marino froze, the sandwich halfway to his mouth again. "What noise?"
"You groaned. Like a... like a pig in heat."
"That's not how pigs—"
"Don't speak with food in your mouth!"
Jesus, meanwhile, leaned forward, peering at the monstrosity in Marino's hands.
"My son... what is that?" he asked, both curious and mildly alarmed. "What have you made?"
Marino hesitated. He could almost hear the warning sirens in his head. Witchcraft.Heresy.Dark rituals involving stacked meats. He'd been so caught up in his culinary breakthrough he'd forgotten just how superstitious people in this world could be.
"I—uh—it's called... uh... Colombo bread. My invention. Not magic. Just food. Completely safe. Totally holy."
Jesus raised an eyebrow. "Colombo bread?"
"Yes. Very Christian. Blessed by salt. Invented this morning."
Mary squinted suspiciously, her eyes darting between the sandwich and Marino's innocent smile. But after a long moment, she sighed and leaned back.
"Well, if it's just bread," she muttered, "then cut me a piece. A small piece."
Marino grinned and quickly sliced the sandwich into thirds. His father took one without hesitation, curious as ever. Mary accepted hers like she was handling a possibly cursed object.
They bit in. And then—
Silence.
Then, a soft moan. From both parents.
Mary's cheeks flushed. Jesus's eyes widened.
"My stars," Mary whispered. "Is this... cabbage?"
"And fish," Jesus added in awe, already going in for a second bite. "And lamb? Together?"
"This is delicious," Mary admitted, covering her mouth in surprise. "Why has no one thought of this before?"
Jesus looked at the half-eaten sandwich in his hand, then back at his son. "So let me understand… you just put the meat in the bread?"
"And some fish, and greens," Marino added, trying to sound casual. "It's all about balance. You layer it. It's convenient, portable, and way tastier than just chewing on leaves or dry bread."
Mary blinked at the strange little construction. "It's… not bad," she admitted. "Strange. But not bad."
Marino leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes sparkling with a fire that seemed far too intense for a boy his age. "But this isn't just food. It's a business, Mama. A real one. We could sell these to sailors, dockworkers, travelers… anyone who needs a quick, tasty meal on the go."
Jesus raised an eyebrow. "You're saying people would pay for this?"
"They'll line up for it," Marino said confidently. "We'll keep it simple. Fresh bread every morning, a few different fillings. You walk in, you say what you want, and boom—Colombo Bread, ready to go."
"Colombo Bread?" Jesus echoed.
Marino nodded. "Named after us! It sounds noble, right?"
Jesus stroked his beard. "Hmph. Has a ring to it."
Inside, Marino was already several steps ahead. Of course, Colombo Bread was just the first step. The first store. But the real dream—the one he dared not speak aloud—was far greater. One day, when he was old enough, strong enough, and rich enough, he would leave this place. Build ships. Cross the seas. Reach the land of his former life.
America, he thought. The United States. His home. It was still out there. Untouched. Unknown to these people. And he would be the first to reach it.
He swallowed the thought down like the last bite of his sandwich. No one here knew of the New World, and if he spoke of it, they'd ask questions he couldn't answer. A child talking about distant lands no map had ever shown? That would turn heads. And not in a good way.
No. Better to play the eager boy with big dreams and a strange sandwich.
"Of course," he said aloud, "I'll still be a shipbuilder. That's what I'm learning, right? I'll study hard. I'll build ships better than anyone. But while I study, we can run the shop. Mama can help with the food. Papa, you can help with the construction."
Jesus chuckled. "You want me to build you a shop?"
"Just a small one," Marino said quickly. "Maybe something near the port. A stall to start with. Somewhere we can sell the bread. Nothing fancy! Just... efficient."
Mary frowned softly. "And who will work there, hm? You can't expect me to do all the baking and the selling."
"We'll hire help," Marino said, trying to keep his tone light. "Some kids maybe. A couple of smart, hardworking ones. They can help serve, clean, smile at the customers. You know—simple tasks."
Jesus gave a low whistle. "You've thought a lot about this."
Marino grinned innocently. "I think while I eat."
Mary leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. "And what will these children be paid?"
"Something modest," Marino said quickly. "A little coin, and food. Most of them probably don't get much at home anyway, so they'll be happy to help. We'll give them uniforms too. It'll feel official."
Jesus laughed again, a booming sound that filled the room. "You've got your father's heart, that's for sure. Big dreams and a sharp tongue."
Marino beamed, letting the praise wash over him. "It's just a small dream, Papa. For now."
He reached for the last olive on the table and popped it into his mouth, letting the salt and brine wake up the next idea in his brain. SubColombo. That would be the real name. But that could wait. First, he'd win them over with Colombo Bread. Then build the first shop. Then a fleet.
And someday, someday when the time was right, he'd cross the ocean and return home—not as a soldier, but as the founder of an empire.