Corsair

by Tim Severin

  ‘I don’t follow your meaning,’ Hector muttered.

  Chabrillan’s lip curled. ‘How would you understand? Am I right in guessing that you have taken the turban and your manhood has been trimmed?’

  ‘I did convert when I was in the bagnio of Algiers,’ Hector acknowledged, ‘but only in the hope that it would ease my captivity. My faith has lapsed since then, both in the teachings of Muhammad and in the religion I was taught as a child by monks. They were good men who knew their gospel.’

  ‘What would those monks say if they knew you had lifted a forefinger and pronounced that there is no God but Allah, and that Muhammad is his prophet,’ Chabrillan sneered. ‘In that benighted corner perhaps your monks have not yet heard the serpent’s hiss, those who preach that Satan is the creator and ruler of the visible world. They deny the Holy Cross and refuse to worship the Virgin Mary and the Saints. That is what Karp and his foul companions do. They claim that the Romish Church is not the Church of Jesus Christ but a Harlot, while only they themselves hold to the truth.’

  ‘But if men like Karp came to fight at Kandia alongside you, what mattered was their hatred of the Turk.’

  ‘Karp did not come to Kandia to fight. He came to convert. He persuaded others in our garrison that atonement and redemption were meaningless, that the sacrament of unction was to be spurned because it is reserved for the rich, that every good layman is himself a priest. His blasphemy was endless.’

  Hector felt he was getting nowhere. The Chevalier was clearly a fanatic, but that did not seem sufficient reason for him to have mutilated Karp, a fellow Christian, in the midst of a gruelling and prolonged siege. ‘What reason did you give when you ordered Karp’s tongue to be removed?’ he asked.

  ‘I needed no authority. Karp had attached himself to my troops in the guise of a cook, and he was under my command. It was enough that he was preaching disobedience, not only to Mother Church but to military authority and to natural order. He would have my men lay down their arms and renounce all violence. They were to call themselves “dear to God”, and trust to prayer. That was sedition. So I stopped his mouth. I made an example of him so that others should take warning.’

  ‘And how did he come to lose his nose and ears as well?’

  Chabrillan gave a shrug as if Hector’s question was superfluous. ‘When Kandia fell, the Turks allowed us to leave unmolested. I took Karp with me as a slave, intending to keep him as an oarsman on my galley. I felt that his punishment was not yet served out. Later he tried to run away. He lost his ears and nose for that. My comite carried out the sentence.’

  ‘Piecourt is dead,’ said Hector flatly.

  ‘Then he will have his just reward,’ replied Chabrillan. ‘He always followed the true doctrine of the Christ, of the Gospel, and the Apostles.’

  ‘And the scars on your feet? How did you suffer them?’

  ‘In Christ’s service,’ answered the Chevalier grimly. Deliberately and rudely, he looked at the wall over Hector’s head. ‘The Venetians had agreed secretly that I alone of all the defenders of Kandia was to be handed over to the Turks. The infidels wished to take revenge for an earlier incident in my struggle against them. They mistook Karp for my personal slave and arranged that he dress my wounds after they had finished with me.’

  ‘Is that when you first met Hakim Reis?’

  Hector’s question had a remarkable effect. Chabrillan dropped his gaze and stared hard at Hector. The Chevalier’s supercilious manner had been replaced by a long, calculating appraisal of his visitor. After a lengthy pause he said softly, ‘I thought that it was the Cohens in Algiers who had betrayed me.’

  ‘The Cohens had nothing to do with it. They probably do not even know that you were taken prisoner from the St Gerassimus or where you are now.’

  ‘Then who wrote that letter promising our escape?’

  ‘It was prepared here in Meknes.’

  Chabrillan’s eyes searched Hector’s face. Hector could tell that the Chevalier was struggling to work out the events of the past few days. ‘Then Karp was the mischief-maker. But I don’t remember that he ever laid eyes on Hakim Reis. And it is strange that he knew Hakim is expected soon in Sallee. From Kandia onwards Karp has been nothing more than a mute beast, pulling an oar.’

  ‘It was not Karp who prepared the letter,’ Hector assured him. ‘He recognised you by the scars on your feet, and identified you as the Lion of La Religion, but nothing more. As for Hakim Reis, no one knows when he will next visit Sallee.’

  ‘Yet the message said that Hakim Reis would be waiting to pick me up.’

  Hector decided that this was his moment to press forward. The Chevalier was off guard and might be shocked into a confession. He watched for his reaction as he said, ‘I needed to confirm that you had dealt with Hakim Reis in the past and that you would expect him to connive at your escape. I had to be sure of my evidence.’

  Chabrillan did not move a muscle. His eyes never left Hector’s face as he asked, ‘And what evidence was that?’

  ‘First, the gunpowder in the magazine. It is a special pistol powder, impossible to manufacture in Barbary. It was not damaged or damp as if it had been captured at sea. The powder was in a keg, in perfect condition, fresh from the makers. I had seen similar kegs aboard the St Gerassimus. The gun founder Sean Allen said that the gunpowder had come from Hakim Reis, who in turn may have got it from a smuggler called Tisonne. That was when I first heard the name. Later a friend of mine, working in Moulay’s armoury, came across some shoddy muskets made for the export market. Again the gun founder said that he had obtained the weapons from Hakim Reis.’ Hector waited for several seconds before adding, ‘I presume you got those marks on your cheek when a faulty musket barrel exploded in your face. Were you giving a demonstration of the weapon, and did Hakim accept the shipment?’

  For a moment Hector thought he had broken through Chabrillan’s calm detachment. The Chevalier moved a hand as if to touch the scatter of blue specks on his cheek, but then changed his mind.

  ‘I shared an oar bench with a man with exactly that colour of mark on his cheek,’ Hector added. ‘He is marked with the letters GAL for galerien. He had told me that when the brand was first scorched into his flesh, it was made permanent by rubbing gunpowder in the fresh burn.’

  ‘You seem to have an abundance of low-life friends,’ Chabrillan remarked witheringly.

  ‘Someone else said that to me recently,’ Hector acknowledged, but then moved on. ‘It was not until I learned that tisonne is a word for a horse with a spotted skin that I made the connection. My guess is that Hakim Reis gave you that cover name, and that you enjoyed the coincidence that tizon is also the name for a weapon which the heroic El Cid wielded against Muslims.’

  ‘You have a very vivid imagination,’ said Chabrillan. It was evident that he had regained his composure fully. ‘Why should it matter to you that I am this Tisonne. I am held in this cell because I am a knight of the Order of St Stephen of Tuscany, not because weapons and gunpowder reached Meknes.’

  ‘I will come to that in a moment,’ Hector answered him. ‘But there is something else which must come first, something more important than arms smuggling.’

  ‘Please continue.’ Chabrillan’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

  ‘Hakim Reis has the reputation of a lucky man. He always seems to be at the right place and at the right time. His galley intercepts merchant shipping with uncanny accuracy, and he is first on the scene when a peace treaty breaks down and a Barbary state reverts to piracy. It is as if someone highly placed in the councils of his victims is supplying him with vital information. I believe that informant was you.’

  ‘And why should I do that?’

  ‘That is what I did not understand until you told me why you had Karp’s tongue removed: you nurse a violent hatred for those who you see as enemies of your Church, whoever they are, whether Muslims or dissenters. You would damage them in whatever way you can.’

  Hector could feel Chabrillan
’s arrogance returning. It was like a physical force radiating from the aristocrat, his absolute certainty that his cause was correct, and that his breeding and privilege placed him above others.

  ‘As a turncoat you would not understand,’ Chabrillan said, his voice contemptuous. ‘Christendom will prevail. But first it must cure itself of the heresies within. That is where the real and present danger lies. Schismatics and agnostics gnaw at the heart of Mother Church. Men like Karp must be rooted out. Nations who would question the authority of Rome must be put to flight. Only then should we turn our full attention to the Eternal War.’

  ‘And is that why you allied yourself with Hakim Reis?’ Hector spoke quietly. He knew now that Chabrillan’s self-belief was his weakness.

  ‘Consider where Hakim Reis operates – in the Atlantic, where he encounters ships from the trading nations of the north, from protestant nations. His activities and the attacks of corsairs like him weaken these nations and distract them from rivalry with the Holy Mother Church. The arms and gunpowder he brings to Moulay are used to drive the English from Tangier. A share of the money he receives, from the slaves and cargoes he captures and the arms he provides, goes to good purpose. Through me it has built galleys for La Religion, strengthened fortifications, and holds back the Turk.’

  ‘Then why did you join the Galley Corps of France?’

  Chabrillan gave a cynical smile. ‘Did you not notice how many of the Reformed, as they like to call themselves, sat alongside you on the benches of St Gerassimus? Increasingly France condemns them to the oar. One day, I predict, King Louis will recognise the Reformed openly for the pestilence they are, and then the galleys of France will join in our crusade, rowed by unbelievers.’

  ‘What about the innocent victims of your alliance with Hakim?’ Hector asked. This was the moment he had waited for. ‘Eighteen months ago Hakim Reis with two ships raided a small and undefended village on the coast of Ireland. He carried off slaves, both men and women. The villagers were taken by surprise because the authorities believed there was a peace treaty between Barbary and the English king. They did not know that the treaty had been torn up. Yet Hakim knew, and he profited from his knowledge. If Tisonne was his source – and you are Tisonne – then you are responsible for both Catholics and Protestants having been sold into slavery.’

  ‘I care not for the Catholics of Ireland,’ snapped Chabrillan. ‘They failed us. When Ireland fell to the protestant English, she no longer sent her noblemen to Malta despite the requests of the Grand Master. Yet at home they continued to enjoy the Order’s lands and estates. Your countrymen were too craven.’ He looked at Hector with a sudden flash of understanding. ‘Hakim Reis matters to you because you were taken in that raid?’

  ‘Yes, I was a victim, along with my sister. She was carried away aboard another ship. I have not seen her since.’

  A vindictive smile appeared on Chabrillan’s face. ‘Your sister?’ he said slowly.

  ‘Yes.’

  The Chevalier considered for a short while before he declared, ‘I had not intended to admit that I am Tisonne, but now I shall do so for the satisfaction it gives me when I address a weak renegade. Yes, I did work together with Hakim Reis. I supplied him intelligence and I provided him with weapons and gunpowder sold corruptly by the administrators of the Galley Arsenal and by other venal merchants. In return, whenever Hakim Reis sold prize goods, he paid me a share through the Cohens in Algiers, and in turn they placed credit for me with the Crespinos in Livorno. No one could trace the money, not even the Jews. Sometimes I met with Hakim at an arranged rendezvous at sea when I handed over guns and powder, and he provided me with his captives for me to sell in Valletta or Livorno.’

  Chabrillan’s manner was utterly self-assured. It occurred to Hector that the Chevalier was pleased to have an audience to whom he could explain himself.

  ‘For all his faults, Hakim Reis had scruples. Unlike you he believed sincerely that he should help his fellow Muslims. He would exchange his Christian captives for Muslims which I had taken. Hakim would then set his people free, and many of them went on to serve as crew aboard his ship. The men and women I received, if they were protestant, I sold in Valletta or Livorno, or kept them at the oar. I remember his raid on Ireland and you are right: I had sent him word that the treaty with England was soon to be repudiated. He took advantage, as I had expected. We had agreed to meet at sea afterward – to conduct our usual exchange of prisoners. But our rendezvous was disturbed. A foreign warship appeared and Hakim Reis wisely fled. He made for safe harbour. There he sold his captives – yourself included.’

  ‘What of the other vessel? When Hakim raided Ireland, he came with two ships. What happened to the second vessel? Where did it go?’ Hector was finding it impossible to keep the tension out of his voice.

  ‘Some time later Hakim Reis sent me my share of the sale of the prisoners from that vessel. They were women. His colleague had got an excellent price for them. I was delighted by the sum. Your sister was no doubt among the wares.’ He paused, coughed to clear his throat. A spiteful gleam had appeared in his eyes. ‘Do you wish to know more?’

  Hector’s mouth was dry, and though he already knew the answer, he murmured, ‘Of course.’

  ‘Your sister and the other women from the Irish raid were landed in Sallee. If she was young and desirable, she would have been sold into Moulay’s harem.’ Chabrillan dropped his voice and spoke slowly and distinctly, relishing every word as he added, ‘The thought that your sister is likely confined not so far from this cell is my consolation for the harm that you have done me. You would do well to reflect that once Moulay breeds on a woman, he casts her off like a used brood mare.’

  TWENTY

  HECTOR’S MOOD OF appalled dismay stayed with him all the way back to the armoury. His meeting with Chabrillan had shocked him into acknowledging that he had avoided facing the reality of what might have happened to Elizabeth. Chabrillan’s malice had brought him face to face with the sordid possibilities.

  Once again, it took Dan’s calm advice to produce a glimpse of hope. ‘You don’t know for sure that Elizabeth is in Moulay’s harem. She could have been sold to one of the kaids in Sallee and kept in his household. And don’t forget that Moulay promised to set your sister free if he got his castle smasher from us. We could yet think up another way of pleasing him.’

  Sean Allen was more cautious. ‘Moulay may not honour that promise if it turns out that Hector’s sister is in his own harem. The Emperor is not known for being open-handed with his possessions.’ But the gun founder realised that he had been tactless, and quickly added, ‘Hector, your best course is to try to find out whether Elizabeth really is in Meknes, and that’s going to be difficult enough. The imperial harem is jealously protected. Every one of Moulay’s wives is accompanied at all times by a eunuch guard as well as a serving woman who reports back to Lala Zidana.’

  ‘Who’s Lala Zidana?’ Dan asked, for Hector was still sunk in dejected silence.

  ‘Moulay’s first wife and his most important one,’ the gun founder answered, ‘though the Lord knows why. She’s an enormous woman, black as night and big as a hippo according to report. Moulay bought her for sixty ducats when she was a domestic slave and she seems to have established some sort of hold over him. There are rumours that she practises witchcraft. Certainly she rules the harem, and she keeps Moulay sweet by supplying him with the choicest girls. That nasty young pup Ahmad for whom we adapted the guns, is Zidana’s son. His mother wants him to be Moulay’s heir and she always keeps the lad in the forefront so that he is under Moulay’s eye. That’s her real influence: as long as Ahmad is the Emperor’s favourite, the mother has direct contact with the throne.’

  ‘Then we should use her to find our way into the harem,’ suggested Dan. He earned a look of astonishment from the gun founder by asking, ‘Could you arrange for me to meet young Ahmad? You could send word that his two new muskets need to be checked over to see if they require adjustment or have n
ew flints fitted. You could flatter the youngster by saying that you had heard of his brilliant marksmanship when he shot down the rowing master.’

  Sean Allen shook his head in wonder. ‘Dan, you should be a full-time courtier. You’re devious enough. I’ll do as you suggest, although I don’t have the slightest idea of what you have in mind.’

  ONLY A FEW DAYS later Dan casually announced to his friends that he had been commanded by Lala Zidana to call on her. The cries of astonishment which greeted this announcement were followed immediately by questions as to how he had achieved his invitation. ‘It wasn’t difficult,’ he said with a knowing grin. ‘I went to Ahmad’s quarters to work on the two muskets, just as Sean had arranged. Naturally the lad keeps the muskets close by him. They are his latest toys. He’s very proud of what he did to the rowing master and boasts about it constantly, and likes to show off the guns. For sheer cruelty he really is his father’s son. Sometimes he loads the guns and fires out of the window at passers-by. Luckily no one has been killed yet. When I arrived, he even grumbled that the guns no longer shoot straight, and complained that I should have come sooner to mend them.’

  ‘But how did you turn that into an invitation to meet Zidana?’ Diaz demanded.

  ‘There were several serving women hovering in the background in Ahmad’s rooms. I guessed that they were part of his mother’s household and keeping an eye on the youngster. Of course they were curious about what I was doing. They came over to look at the guns and I showed them the inlay work. It’s very ornate, you’ll remember, with lots of curls and curves done in mother of pearl, and there’s scroll work picked out in gold. I pretended that I had set the inlays myself and then, as if to prove it, I showed them this,’ and he slid back the sleeve of his shirt. On his forearm was an intricate pattern of leaves and flowers, painted in reddish brown and indigo, with here and there a touch of yellow. Dan glanced across at Hector. ‘My friend, maybe you’ve forgotten that I know how to do skin painting. At one time you were clever enough to put it to good use, and get me appointed to help colour Turgut Reis’s maps. This time I’ve been able to assist you.’