by Tim Severin
‘I doubt that the sailor would know very much,’ said Dan. He was holding the musket barrel up to the light so he could squint down inside the barrel. ‘If you remember, the regular rambade crew was terrified that the mortar would burst, or a bomb explode while still on deck. So they kept well clear when the gun was being tested.’ He picked up a small file and scraped at a rust mark on the musket barrel, then put the musket barrel on one side, and called out to Bourdon, ‘No need to fix that lock, Jacques. This gun’s so rotten that it would blow up the face of the man who used it. Get one of the lads to give it a polish and put it back in the rack so it looks good on display if Moulay comes round on an inspection. But make sure that it doesn’t get issued for active service. I’m condemning it.’
‘That’s one of the guns I got from Hakim Reis, back in the old days,’ commented Allen. The gun founder had just come out of his office on his way to the foundry where the new brass culverin was being chipped out of its mould. ‘Those muskets were made specially for the export market. Shoddy, cheap stuff.’ Turning to Hector, he asked whether he had come back with any more information about the galley mortar. When Hector admitted that he suspected the French comite of the St Gerassimus was holding something back, Allen suggested a new approach. ‘Why don’t you go to speak with Joseph Maimaran, Moulay’s ransom agent? He’s very clever. See if he can devise a way of putting some pressure on the comite to make him talk. I know Joseph quite well as I obtain all my brandy and spirits from the Jews because they have the monopoly on distillation. I’ll send one of the English lads with you, and he’ll bring you to Maimaran’s house. It’s in the Jewish quarter, of course, so you’ll need to explain your business to the guards at the gate.’
THE MELLAH, the Jewish quarter, lay deep within a maze of narrow streets to the rear of the palace compound, and the young lad who guided Hector took gruesome delight in explaining that its name meant ‘the place of salt’ because Jewish butchers were obliged to pickle the heads of traitors before the heads were nailed up on the city gates. The youth also managed to get himself lost, and it was only by following a stranger dressed in a Jew’s black skull cap and cloak who was walking bare foot – the boy explained that the Jews had to go shoeless by Moulay’s order – that they finally came to the gateway in the wall enclosing the Jewish enclave. Here Hector and his guide were allowed to pass after handing over a small bribe.
Joseph Maimaran’s house lay at the end of a narrow alley and had a modest unpainted door set so deep in the surrounding wall that it was easily overlooked. The humble appearance of the building was as unassuming as its owner who greeted his visitor warily. Maimaran was at least sixty years old, and possessed one of the saddest faces Hector had ever seen. There were deep shadows under his doleful eyes, and the small mouth beneath the prominent nose was permanently downturned and despondent. Hector had to remind himself that Joseph Maimaran, according to Allen, was one of the richest men in Morocco. His wealth had helped bring Moulay to power and he was acknowledged leader of the Jewish community. This meant he had to tread a delicate path. Often, when Moulay needed money, Maimaran was expected to extract it from his fellow Jews, and he could not ask for the return of any loan to the Emperor. If he did so, he risked suffering at the hands of the Black Guard.
‘I’ve come about the prisoners from the French galley St Gerassimus,’ Hector began carefully. ‘The Emperor gave instructions that I was to assist you in setting the amount of their ransom.’
‘So I believe,’ answered Maimaran, who made it his business to stay closely informed about the Emperor’s latest whim.
‘He also wants to acquire a siege gun similar to one on the galley, and for that I need information from the prisoners.’
‘And have you had any success?’
‘Not yet. I was wondering whether it would be possible to reduce the amount of their ransom if they cooperated in the matter of the gun.’
‘It is a proposition fraught with risk,’ commented the Jew. As he observed the young Irishman in front of him, Maimaran wondered if the young man knew just how angry and violent Moulay would be if he learned that he had been denied a full ransom.
‘Sean Allen thought you might be able to suggest another way forward.’
Maimaran pretended to give the matter some thought. But he had already decided he would prevaricate. He spread out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘At this stage I don’t know what to propose. I know too little about the case. It would be helpful to have some more information about the French prisoners, any details that would help me calculate their ransom.’
Hector looked disappointed. ‘Would there be any advantage in getting in touch with other ransom brokers? The leader of the prisoners is a man called Piecourt. He has twice asked that someone send word of their capture to Algiers. Apparently there is someone there – an Iphrahim Cohen – who can arrange their speedy release.’
This time Maimaran’s hesitation was genuine. Hector’s suggestion was a surprise. Of course, Maimaran knew that the leading ransom brokers in Algiers were the Cohen family. He had dealt with them in the past, though in matters of trade, not as ransom brokers. Again the Jew was cautious. ‘Did this man Piecourt give any reason why this Iphrahim Cohen should be told?’
‘No. He only asked that someone contact him.’
‘An interesting idea . . .’ It was odd, Maimaran reflected, that a comite of the French Galley Corps should know the identities of the leading ransom agents in Algiers. ‘Again, it seems that we need to be better informed about the Frenchmen. One of my assistants will visit them. He will assess their ransom value – he is an expert in these matters – and report back to me. In the meantime I suggest you also try to learn more about them. You said that is the Emperor’s wish: that you act as the go-between.’
With that remark, Maimaran shifted the responsibility back to Hector and brought the interview to an end.
LUIS DIAZ was waiting in Sean Allen’s office when Hector got back there, and the grin on the Spaniard’s face contrasted with the gun founder’s tone of exasperation. ‘One moment the Emperor wants a castle smasher,’ Allen was saying, ‘and the next instant he sends word that there’s to be a fantasia. That means we’ll have to waste some of our small stock of pistol powder so there will be even less for bomb experiments.’
Hector was startled. ‘Is the Emperor going to have someone blown from the mouth of a cannon?’
Diaz laughed aloud. ‘Whatever makes you think that?’
‘In the bagnio of Algiers our Turkish guards accused us of a fantasia if we did or said something insolent or disobedient.’
‘This is a different sort of fantasia, thank god,’ the gun founder reassured him. ‘One which delights our horse-mad friend here. It involves a lot of over-excited cavalrymen charging around on their horses and firing guns in the air. It’s spectacular and very profligate as it uses up a great deal of gunpowder. It is aptly known as Laab al-Barud or Powder Play.’
Luis Diaz’s grin only broadened. ‘Sean, don’t be so grumpy. Our young friend deserves a day out from this smoky hellhole. I’ll take him and his companions along to see the show. In the meantime you might be so good as to issue me with half a keg of good pistol powder so I can bring it to the royal stables without further delay. The fantasia is scheduled for today, after the evening prayer. There’s no time to waste in gossiping.’
Diaz’s good humour continued as he left the Arsenal with Hector and his companions, closely followed by a servant leading a mule loaded with the precious powder. ‘A fantasia is really something special. You’ll never have seen anything like it before. Two or three hundred first-class riders mounted on some of the very best horseflesh in the world.’
They came to the causeway where it crossed over the prison cells, and Diaz advised them to wait there: ‘This is the best place to see the show. It’ll take at least a couple of hours for the riders to get ready, so you can spend the time catching up with your former shipmates from the galley. As it’s
Sunday, they’ll be having the day off. But leave someone up here to keep yourself a good spot as it’ll soon get crowded.’
Leaving Dan to hold their place, Hector went down into the shallow gully with Karp and Bourdon and headed towards the arch where the crew of St Gerassimus were lodged. He was intent on cross-examining Piecourt, but as they reached the Frenchman’s cell, a surly-looking inmate told him that the comite was absent, and so too was the rowing master. Nor would anyone tell him where they had gone. Hector was left with the impression that the crew members of the St Gerassimus had been told to be as unresponsive and obstructive as possible if he returned with any questions. Only when Bourdon met up with some of his countrymen who failed to recognise him was the pickpocket able to learn that the comite and the rowing master were at mass. ‘Apparently there’s a clandestine chapel in the last archway. It’s been set up secretly by two Franciscan priests who came to Meknes to negotiate some prisoner releases. Moulay has been keeping the priests waiting for months, quibbling about the size of the ransom. In the meantime they conduct secret masses for the faithful. The comite and a couple of the other men from the galley are there now.’
‘Karp, would you mind coming with me into the chapel and having a look round?’ Hector asked. ‘I have a feeling that it might be dangerous for me to go in there by myself. Jacques, perhaps you can stay outside and keep watch. Warn us if you think that we might get ourselves trapped inside.’
The three men made their way to the furthest archway. It was much smaller than the others, and had been closed off with a wooden doorway. Quietly Hector pushed the door open and slipped inside with Karp at his heels.
It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the almost total dark. A service was in progress. The chapel was tiny, so cramped that it could hold no more than a score of worshippers. All of them were crushed together and on their knees as they faced a portable altar set up against the far wall. In front of the altar a priest was also kneeling, his hands clasped in prayer. There was no window to the tiny room, and the only light came from a single candle placed on the altar which illuminated a cross made from woven straw pinned against the far wall. In the dense gloom Hector could not identify the individual figures of the worshippers. They all appeared to be dressed in slaves’ clothing though he thought he recognised the broad shoulders of the rowing master. Deep in their prayers, none of the congregation turned their heads as they murmured their responses to their priest’s invocation.
As unobtrusively as possible, Hector sank down to his knees. Beside him he felt Karp do the same. The chapel was so crowded that he found it difficult to avoid the bare feet of the man directly ahead of him. Hector kept his head bent forward, wondering at the intense devotion of the worshippers. The chapel was airless and the smell of the close-packed bodies filled his nostrils. He admired the courage of the priest who would risk holding such a mass, and the ardent devotion of his flock.
Slowly he became aware that Karp beside him was beginning to shake. At first it was a slight quivering, but then it became a pronounced movement, an uncontrollable tremor that shook the man’s body. For a moment Hector wondered if Karp was about to have a fit. When he glanced sideways he saw that the Bulgar’s eyes were wide open. He was staring in horror at the ground in front of him, as if witnessing something terrible. Hector tried to make out what was frightening his companion. In the half-light all he could see were the feet of the man kneeling directly in front of Karp. Looking closely he saw that on the sole of each foot was a brand. Someone had burned the sign of the cross deep into the flesh, leaving a hard scar.
Fearful that Karp would draw attention to their presence, Hector reached out and grasped the Bulgar’s arm reassuringly. Karp turned his anguished face towards him, and Hector gestured that they should leave. Quietly rising to his feet and still keeping his hold on Karp, Hector eased open the chapel door and the two men stepped outside into the daylight. Looking into Karp’s face, Hector saw that the Bulgar had tears in his eyes. He was still shaking.
‘What is it, Karp? What’s the matter?’ Hector asked gently. The Bulgar was making incoherent strangled sounds, though whether they were from terror or rage it was difficult to say. Something warned Hector that it would be wiser if he and the Bulgar were not seen near the chapel.
‘We had better move away,’ Hector went on. ‘It’s safer.’
Bourdon joined them and the Bulgar began to calm down, but his chest was still heaving and he was making unhappy guttural sounds. Suddenly he leaned down and pulled off the sandal he was wearing. Holding up his foot, he sketched the sign of the cross on the sole, then pointed into his ruined mouth and made a fierce gurgling sound. ‘The man with the branded foot is something to do with your tongue being torn out, is that it?’ Hector asked. Karp nodded vehemently. Squatting down he drew in the dust the outline of a ship, a galley. Next he marked a flag with a cross and, pointing down towards the ground, uttered a deep anguished roar. ‘He’s from the galley? From our galley?’ Karp nodded. ‘Karp, we’ll sit down quietly when we get back to the foundry. There Dan can help us with pen and paper and you can tell us precisely what it is that you want us to know.’
At this point there was a shout. It was Dan leaning over the edge of the causeway and beckoning to them. ‘Come on up,’ he called, ‘the fantasia is about to start. Hurry!’ Hector, Bourdon and Karp made their way up to the crest of the causeway to find that a crowd of spectators had assembled. Most were courtiers from Moulay’s entourage, but there were also a number of foreigners, including the three Spanish cavalrymen they had last seen at Diaz’s billet. Everyone was jostling together and looking towards the royal stables. Hector placed himself near the edge of the crowd where he could look down and also watch the entrance to the secret chapel. Soon he saw figures appear. The Mass must have finished, and the celebrants were leaving. They emerged in twos and threes, and hurried away quietly. Hector guessed that the priest must have instructed them to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He saw the rowing master, his squat figure unmistakable even though he was in the deep shadow cast by the setting sun. Close behind the rowing master came Piecourt. Once again he was accompanied by the same tall figure of the man he had been with when Hector had visited the cell. Then, finally, he saw the figure of the priest holding to his chest a box which must be the folding altar.
Behind him there was an excited murmur and Hector turned to see that the crowd was now gazing intently down the broad road which led towards the royal stables. In the distance was movement, a low cloud of dust. He strained his eyes and the dust cloud resolved itself into a line of horsemen advancing across a broad front towards the causeway at a slow walk. As the riders drew closer, he began to distinguish that they were all dressed in white robes which flowed and billowed around them. Soon he heard the low rumble of many hooves, hundreds of them, and he realised that there were many more horsemen behind the first squadron. Rank after rank of riders were coming forward. Suddenly, as if on a single command, the front troop of horses passed straight from a walk into a full gallop. They were heading directly towards the spectators as if determined to ride them down. Their riders began to whoop and yell, standing in their stirrups and waving muskets. Some were throwing their weapons up in the air and catching them as they continued their headlong rush. Hector felt his heart pounding as the ground trembled under the hooves of their charge. The horsemen were much closer now. He could see the magnificent accoutrements of their mounts – deep saddles covered with brocade, bridles and reins of tooled leather stamped with gold, velvet saddle blankets edged with silver and gold fringes and tassels, broad breast bands worked with filigree. He heard the cries of the riders urging their animals to gallop even faster. Involuntarily he flinched back expecting the onrushing horsemen to crash into the crowd. Suddenly one of the riders, an older man riding to one side, gave a signal. As one, the front rank of the horsemen swung their muskets forward, holding them two-handed across their bodies so the muzzles pointed over their horses’ ears and
fired their guns. There was a single, ear-splitting salvo, and the air was filled with puffs of smoke torn through by the arcing sparks of the burning wads. In the same instant, the front rank of riders had reined their horses to a halt, so that the horses heaved back on their haunches only yards from the onlookers. A touch on the reins, and the animals spun on the same spot and went tearing away, with the robes of the riders flapping out behind them and their exultant cries ringing in the ears of the crowd.
Again and again, troop after troop, the riders charged down in the fantasia, fired their guns, wheeled around, and raced away only to regroup and charge down again. As Hector got over his surprise, he began to recognise the pattern in their movements. There were ten squadrons of riders, each performing their manoeuvres at the full gallop, perhaps a thousand horses in total. Each squadron was distinguished by its own particular feature – the colour of the bridles, the size and colour of their horses. One squadron in particular was more magnificent than all the rest. It was composed mostly of horses that were the palest cream in colour. Their tails and manes had been allowed to grow almost to the ground so that they streamed out spectacularly as they galloped, and their discipline was perfect. In that pale squadron three horses stood out. Two were jet black and the third was a handsome pale grey covered with black spots. Each time this squadron charged forward, these three horses were always a few paces ahead of the rest, and they were controlled by a single horseman. The animals were superbly schooled for they stayed close together at a full gallop and allowed their rider to leap from saddle to saddle, occasionally throwing up his musket and catching it again. And it was always this same rider who, as he came careering up to the crowd in advance of his squadron, was the one who gave the command to fire the guns. On the third occasion that this squadron, now like ghostly riders in the near-darkness, completed the fantasia, their leader came to a halt so close to Hector that flecks of foam from his horse’s mouth – it was the speckled grey – flew out and landed on his face. At that moment Hector recognised the rider was Moulay Ismail.