The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  ‘And what will you do with that problem now that you are burdened with it?’

  William shrugged. ‘I do not honestly know. I have to hope that a reputable merchant can return him to Naples . . .’

  Gerard walked around William, pausing at his shoulder. ‘And if you cannot?’

  William breathed heavily. ‘Then he will stay with us.’

  Gerard nodded. ‘He may be an asset to you, Captain.’

  William disagreed. ‘He is a petulant child.’

  ‘But one with fine swordsmanship,’ Captain Gerard remarked.

  William looked startled. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I have seen him sparring alone on the deck. Last night, incidentally. He looked quite competent.’

  ‘Where the heavens did he get a sword?’

  Gerard feigned innocence. ‘This is a merchant ship, Captain. There are always swords on the Iberian.’ He put a hand to William’s arm. ‘We know each other a little, sir. May I impart some advice that will serve you well?’

  William hesitated, but had grace enough to accept.

  ‘This boy of yours is headstrong and courageous. Among the lessons I’ve learned throughout my years at sea is that a great captain should harness such bravery and strength. Not to do so would be an awful waste. Marco is fiercely devoted to you, sir. He would follow you to the ends of the earth. Not many leaders of men have had such strength and loyalty in support.’

  William nodded but was as stone. ‘Loyalty will not be enough, Captain Gerard. Not on this mission.’

  ‘Not even an asset?’

  ‘His vulnerability is something I find most unpalatable,’ William confessed. ‘Would you bring a relation on board your ship knowing that you sail into peril?’

  ‘No, Captain, I would not,’ Gerard agreed. ‘Yet I have no relation with the strength or will of this boy.’

  Andreas climbed the steps to the quarterdeck, rubbing his hands together eagerly, interrupting the debate. ‘Captains,’ he greeted jovially. ‘How are the pigs?’

  William did not know whether the Papal messenger was addressing him or not, so he replied anyway. ‘They smell most foul, Andreas.’

  Gerard broke into gruff laughter. ‘Spoken like a gentleman, sir!’ he said, and slapped William hard on the back. ‘They’re being unloaded as we speak.’ Gerard pointed down the gangplank to where several cages and carts waited for them, a squad of British soldiers standing by.

  ‘The ambassador’s escort I believe,’ Andreas mused.

  ‘Then this is goodbye?’ William said, relieved.

  Andreas seemed genuinely sorry, but he nodded. ‘I’m afraid it is, gentlemen. Thank you a thousand times for an uneventful crossing, Captain.’

  Gerard bowed.

  ‘And to you, Captain Saxon . . . I look forward to seeing you again in a few weeks’ time. Hopefully with some success,’ Andreas added and winked.

  William shook the messenger’s outstretched hand. ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Remember . . . Should you need anything, I will be at the consulate in Alexandria. Do not hesitate to contact me,’ Andreas whispered to him. ‘And perhaps you will have a letter for me on your return?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ William said and smiled sharply.

  ‘Good day, gentlemen,’ Andreas said, and swanned away down the main deck to the gangplank.

  ‘Pleasant fellow,’ Gerard mused.

  ‘Quite,’ William replied.

  V

  As the horses were unloaded, Peruzo spotted two riders dressed in grey coming along the quay They waved over and Peruzo shot his hand in the air, shouting out to William. As William expressed his thanks to Captain Gerard, Brother Jericho and Marco carried their possessions down the gangplank and waited by the horses.

  ‘Fair sailing to you, sir,’ William said to Gerard as they shook hands.

  Gerard smiled brightly. ‘And to you, Captain. All my prayers for you and your mission. I thought you should know: a colleague of mine who captains the Vesper will take your boy back to Naples if you wish.’

  William looked hopeful. ‘Excellent. When?’

  ‘In three days, if you can spare them. He is a trustworthy man and he may only ask Marco to perform some deck work, which he has already shown great competency for.

  William nodded, though three days was far too long a time to spend in Rashid. Still, it was better than nothing.

  Gerard looked to Peruzo next and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Look after your captain, Lieutenant. He is a fine officer. Worthy of any army.’

  ‘You can count on it,’ Peruzo replied cheerfully.

  ‘And be sure both of you return in one piece, you hear?’ Captain Gerard added as both officers disembarked down the gangplank to the quay.

  Marco held the bridles of two horses, sheepishly avoiding William’s gaze while Jericho put their belongings across their saddles. The merchants along the quay began to part as the two riders appeared.

  Peruzo looked over at William tentatively. ‘Lieutenant Vittore,’ he murmured.

  William nodded, wondering also what the lieutenant would make of Peruzo’s presence. The two monks dismounted and marched over to William.

  ‘Captain,’ the lieutenant said, slightly bowing.

  ‘Lieutenant Vittore, it is a pleasure to see you again. You are well?’ William replied.

  Vittore, a tall fellow with oiled black hair and a fine moustache that curled under his nose, nodded in reply but glanced at Lieutenant Peruzo hesitantly. ‘Lieutenant Peruzo . . .’ he began and then fell silent.

  ‘Lieutenant Peruzo is here at my request. He is not replacing you, Lieutenant,’ William clarified. ‘With the size of the company larger than usual, I have taken steps to ensure I have two lieutenants under my command. I trust that will be acceptable to both of you.’

  Peruzo, as ever, was content with the arrangement, but Vittore looked slightly irritated.

  ‘Lieutenant Vittore, you will take the Spanish contingent. You know those men better than I. Lieutenant Peruzo is familiar with the rest of the brothers and will therefore take them,’ William continued, and then paused. ‘I need not remind either of you of the perilous nature of this mission, so I will leave the care of our men in your hands. As for myself . . . I must concentrate on other matters, such as finding our contact and then our prize. Understood?’

  Both men nodded, yet the monk behind Vittore screwed up his face. William did not recognize the man, but surmised he was from the Spanish contingent.

  ‘Something wrong?’ William asked directly.

  Lieutenant Vittore turned to glare at the monk, who looked away.

  ‘I’m afraid there is, Captain,’ Vittore conceded.

  William waited for him to elaborate. ‘Well?’ he insisted, looking to the second monk after Vittore was not forthcoming.

  Vittore looked about in case there were eavesdroppers. ‘It’s about our informant . . . He was discovered floating in the Nile many days ago, before we even arrived in Rashid. Charles Greynell is dead, Captain.’

  VI

  They moved like ghosts through the town, passing through the crowds sombrely. Throughout the journey William brooded, barely looking to their surroundings and the colourful locals as they talked and gestured, smoked and bartered. Some squatted in doorways, others stood in groups, casting furtive glances towards the six strangers. With their pale skins and grey garb, the monks had the mark of foreigners upon them, and there was a tangible sense of hostility and wariness.

  Under the occupation of the French and the British, the people of Rashid had looked on with similar distrust, yet it was tempered with a fearful respect. Since Viceroy Ali had taken control of the country, the self-respect of Rashid had waned. Foreigners were treated with suspicion and hatred, and yet Ali’s intervention had proved disastrous to the port. After building the Mahmudiyah Canal, Alexandria’s star was rising and Rashid was in decline. Its people looked on their own with contempt, much as they did on foreigners. It was just a matter of whom to bl
ame.

  Above them came the long melodic yet alien call of the muezzin from a nearby mosque, his voice carrying far over streets that turned eerily quiet. Marco looked up, cowed by his surroundings, and this warm and exotic world.

  Eventually, having passed through much of the Arab quarter, they arrived at their lodgings, a tall building with slatted windows and cracks along its aspect. It was the colour of sand, though stripes of vibrant paint ran along the entrance, attempting to make it inviting. The detritus of rotting food and broken crates nearby only added to the feeling of poverty.

  A young lad half Marco’s age came scuttling out of the inn and took hold of their bridles, talking excitedly as though it would encourage William to hand over their horses.

  ‘What is he saying?’ William asked.

  Vittore listened intently and frowned. ‘I think he wants to stable our horses.’

  ‘At a price I suppose,’ William said as he swung himself out of the saddle and landed on the ground, dust erupting around his boots.

  ‘Everything in Rashid has its price, Captain,’ Vittore remarked. ‘It was Alexander himself who said that the Persian and African states are the most beguiling yet the most corrupt. They would sell their own families into slavery if it turned over a few gold coins.’

  William glanced at Vittore, regarding the officer as well as the remark. The lieutenant was bronzed and his face showed lines of exposure to the sun. He was an experienced soldier by reputation and spent much of his time in North Africa as well as in Spain.

  ‘Can you speak Arabic?’ William asked him as he opened the drawstrings of his purse.

  ‘I know a little dialect from the west, enough to get by. But the language here is a mystery, I’m afraid. Brother Leone serves as our translator.’

  William looked down at the boy who was struggling to hold his horse. William took out two coins and showed them, but the boy looked unsure. William added a third and the boy grinned, snatching them from his fingers. He then led the horses down the side of the tall building to a stable hidden at the rear, singing a song with unfamiliar words.

  William shook his head dismally. ‘I’ve served with Brother Leone before. He is a fine soldier. I hope his Arabic is as good as his sword arm,’ he confided to Peruzo. ‘We are in a strange land with no guide.’

  ‘Yes, Captain,’ Peruzo agreed.

  ‘Lieutenant Vittore,’ William said, turning to him. ‘Arrange for guards to be posted at the door.’

  ‘I already have, Captain, two men . . .’

  ‘Double it,’ William interrupted. ‘If Greynell is dead, I doubt it was a natural cause.’

  ‘We do not know how . . .’ Vittore began.

  ‘We will by tonight,’ William interrupted again impatiently. ‘Arrange for the men to meet me downstairs. Is there a room where I can address them?’

  ‘A dining room,’ Vittore replied.

  ‘In half an hour, gather them. I need to tell you all what we face.’

  Vittore half bowed and marched away, looking slightly aggrieved.

  Noting that his captain was in no mood to discuss the situation further, Peruzo put his head down and carried their belongings inside, with Jericho close behind.

  Only Marco waited with William outside the inn. ‘You will stay with us for the time being,’ William said.

  ‘Are you sending me away?’ Marco asked.

  ‘If I can, I will,’ William replied. ‘This is no place for you, Marco.’

  The boy looked as though he might complain, but William pointed to the two bags on the road and then pointed to the inn. ‘Get me a room, and be quick. If you’re going to be here with us, I may as well make use of you.’

  Marco muttered something under his breath as he picked up the bags, wincing slightly as he carried the weight over his shoulders. William watched him leave, waiting until the innkeeper’s son had taken the last of the horses to the stable. Then he put his hand inside his jacket and pulled out Charles Greynell’s letter, his eyes running over each word, down each line.

  ‘Well, Mr Greynell, I hope you left some clues in this letter, because hope is all we have at the moment,’ he said to himself before leaving the street for the cool hallway of the inn.

  *

  Their room was simple like the hostel, with just a bed, a rusty lamp on a nearby table and an ancient rug on the floor that looked as though it might fall apart as soon as you stepped upon it. Full-length folding doors looked out onto a balcony. William opened them as soon as he and Marco were inside, letting in some air and churning the dust into miniature tornadoes that swirled and sparkled in the afternoon light.

  William heard a murmur of effort behind him and noticed that Marco was straining again as he stowed their belongings under the table with the lamp. He went over and took the boy’s arm.

  ‘Let us see those hands,’ he said.

  Marco looked up, a little ashamed, his hands balled into shaking fists.

  ‘Let me see,’ William insisted gently. Marco unclenched them and he saw they were red and raw, with cuts on both. He smiled and looked proudly at Marco. ‘Captain Gerard certainly had you working hard,’ he remarked. ‘Ask one of the brothers for salve to soothe the skin. They’ll be fine in a few days.’

  ‘Yes, Uncle,’ Marco said dutifully.

  William regarded the boy for a moment. There were times when Marco appeared older than he was, and sometimes in the half-light and shadow he would seem like a man. Yet his petulance and boyish pouting whenever he was chastised quickly dispelled the illusion. He was naught but a child in a growing body. If he was physically maturing enough to continue with them then so too must his attitude, William mused, surprising himself that he should even consider keeping Marco on this mission. The alternatives would cost time, looking for a merchant who was reliable enough to return the boy to Naples, time that was now required to investigate Charles Greynell’s demise.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ William said, his sword only a short reach away.

  Peruzo appeared at the doorway. ‘They are assembled, Captain.’

  ‘Very well,’ William said, moving past Marco. He paused to look at the boy as he began unpacking their belongings. ‘You’d better come with me. If you are staying with us, you need to know what we face as much as the other men in this company.’

  Marco spilled the clothes from his arms in his enthusiasm, gathering them up quickly to dump them on the bed before rushing after his uncle.

  VII

  The dining room was crammed. Where there were stools or benches, the monks sat. Where there was a place to stand, a brother did so. There was space enough for William to address the men, but the room was only built to house two dozen people at any one time, not forty-two. Thirty-nine of these were monks, and William looked over each and every one of them. He recognized some: Brothers Gregory, Cristiano, Nico and Leone amongst others. Brother Leone had served with him in Aosta and many others had been with him on missions in Spain and France. The Spanish contingent led by Lieutenant Vittore was largely unknown to him, but there were a couple of faces he had seen at St Laurence, and the men assembled had a fierce reputation.

  William cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen, I wish our first meeting was under better circumstances. Time is short, so I will be brief. Our mission is to locate and capture the Hoard of Mhorrer.’

  There were murmurs at this, but no surprise. The rumour-mongers at St Laurence and the Secretariat were all too efficient.

  ‘I will not deceive any of you. The journey will be hard and I expect we will lose many before the job is done. But this is what you have trained for. This is what you have devoted your lives to. If we prevail, then the War will near its end. If we fail, then we risk the destruction of everything we cherish.

  ‘Unfortunately I believe our enemies, the servants of the Count, are already here in this town . . .’

  (Again there were murmurs, perhaps more audible than the first.)

  ‘. . . And that ou
r contact, Charles Greynell, has been murdered by them. This I intend to settle tonight. Brothers Nico and Leone will accompany Lieutenant Peruzo and me in the investigation.’ He paused and placed his hands on his hips, regarding each monk in turn, studying the strength of the company.

  ‘Days of toil and hardship lie ahead of us. The desert is unforgiving to the weak, as most of you know at first hand. And when we find the Hoard, there will be another trial to overcome: the Rassis Cult. You will need all your strength and courage to meet them. Prepare yourselves. Both here’ – he tapped his head, ‘and here’ – he tapped his heart. ‘I know we will prevail, for there are no better soldiers on this earth than the brothers of St Laurence . . .’

  The monks were stirred by William’s words. Their expressions were hopeful, their eyes glittering with confidence. William looked to Marco, who had been enthralled throughout the address. His eyes sparkled too with adoration and enthusiasm. ‘Let me come with you tonight,’ he whispered to his uncle, ‘so I can prove I too am worthy of this mission.’

  William shook his head. ‘If you really wish to gain favour, take my orders without argument. You must stay here. Talk to the men. Learn from them. And heal those hands.’

  Marco’s first instinct was to sulk, but he learned fast and his expression changed to obedience. He bowed and stayed silent.

  At the other side of the room, Brothers Nico and Leone spoke to Peruzo and then left to prepare while William talked to Lieutenant Vittore.

  ‘I’ve heard little of the Rassis Cult,’ Vittore said, ‘but what I’ve learned makes me believe we need more men, Captain.’

  ‘This is our company, Lieutenant,’ William replied. ‘There are no more. Cardinal Devirus believed that time came first. To wait for reinforcements would deliver the Hoard into Ordrane’s hands.’

  ‘I am certain the Count’s men aren’t here, Captain,’ Vittore said. ‘We would know if they were. I ’ve had my men searching this town for the last five days. There’s been no sign of them. Charles Greynell was probably killed by a local thief.’

  ‘Where is Greynell’s body now?’ William asked.

  ‘He was cremated,’ Vittore explained. ‘He had begun to rot. The heat is terrible here.’