by Peter Kerr
He ventured over the wharf towards the Gate of Chains, which led from the harbour to the area of the city where both the principal mosque and the royal palace were situated. As he’d expected, the massive wooden doors of the main entrance were closed and barricaded, but there was a glimmer of light seeping through the surrounds of the little side gate. He gave the postern door a sharp knock, and almost immediately a small hatch was drawn aside, framing the scowling face of an elderly man, whose wrinkled features appeared uncannily prune-like in the underlit glow of his lantern.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ was his greeting.
Pedrito offered the same reply he’d given in response to the identical question put to him by the sentry at the Bab-al-balad gate. He indicated his soiled clothes and muddy skin as proof of his struggles. ‘Please, please show me the mercy of Allah and allow me sanctuary within these walls.’
The gatekeeper’s reply was a grunted, ‘If I had a single dirham for every destitute peasant who has come knocking at this door during the past few nights, I’d be a rich man.’
‘There is no god except Allah,’ Pedrito bluffed, ‘and you, oh venerable one, have the bounty of his mercy in your hands.’
‘When I see the colour of your money in my hands, then you’ll see the bounty of his mercy. Until then, sleep with the rats on the quayside.’ With that, the prune slammed the hatch shut in Pedrito’s face.
So much for bothering to rub muck all over himself, Pedrito thought. From his robe, he took the leather pouch the king had given him and jangled its contents close to the hatch.
‘Allah be praised,’ the gatekeeper declared as his wizzened face appeared again in the opening. ‘His bounty is boundless.’ He thrust an upturned palm through the hatch. ‘And I, a poor man, extend his gift of mercy to the downtrodden victims of the infidel invader.’
Pedrito placed a coin in his hand.
‘You expect to receive the gift of mercy for this?’ the gatekeeper scoffed. ‘Don’t be a complete idiot. Even the bounty of Allah has a going rate!’
Pedrito placed another coin in his hand.
‘Now you’re only half an idiot. Double this and your salvation from insanity will be complete.’
Pedrito placed two more coins in his hand.
The hatch slammed shut again, and the sound of bolts and chains being rattled resounded across the deserted quayside. The postern door creaked open, but only far enough to enable the gatekeeper to peep gingerly through the gap. ‘Are you armed?’ he asked, his eyes narrowing into slits of suspicion.
Pedrio assured him that he was carrying no weapons.
‘Then raise your hands above your head, turn around and come through the door backwards. A detachment of archers is lined up inside here, so one wrong move by you and you’ll be a human hedgehog!’
Pedrito did as instructed, and as soon as he had crossed the threshold he was told to keep shuffling backwards, hands high, for a further ten paces. While he stood there in the semi-darkness, the gatekeeper meticulously re-bolted and chained his door, all the while keeping one eye on Pedrito. He then wheeled round wielding a sword which he had produced from the shadows.
‘Right,’ he growled, ‘come near me and you’re a dead man! There’s an inn some way up that street behind you. It’s a rat-infested flea pit, but it’s been good enough for the other peasant halfwits who’ve bribed their way past me, so it’ll be good enough for you.’ He brandished the sword threateningly. ‘Now, be on your way!’
The first thing Pedrito did was to glance about him in order to ascertain the exact whereabouts of the detachment of archers who, allegedly, had been all set to use him for target practice. He wasn’t all that surprised to see that the little yard in which he stood was entirely empty. There was, however, a huddle of guards lounging over the battlements above the gatehouse, and Pedrito was in no doubt that any one of those would have been ready and more than willing to alleviate boredom by welcoming him to the city with the sharp end of a javelin or crossbow bolt, should his demeanour warrant it. Consequently, he did as the gatekeeper had instructed and went quietly on his way.
He’d gone but a short distance when it became clear that he wasn’t in the city proper at all, but in a dingy and rather smelly warren of narrow, winding alleys tucked in behind the sea wall. This quarter, he concluded, would be the current domain, whether temporary or permanent, of those selfsame seafarers, ponces, whores, junk-vendors, down-and-outs and cutpurses who would normally be frequenting the harbourside at this time of night. And the street lighting for which Medîna Mayûrqa was renowned certainly hadn’t been extended into this murky kasbah, where every shadowy opening and passage exuded even more menace than had the gatekeeper’s version of hospitality. Pedrito was regretting more with each step that he’d turned down King Jaume’s offer of a dagger.
Shortly, on rounding a corner, he noticed a glimmer of light coming from a small, barred opening in a castellated wall up ahead. As he approached, the stench of rotting fish and animal dung which permeated the kasbah was gradually supplanted by the sweet, tangy smell of citrus and the fragrant aroma of flowers, just as the throaty guffaws and squeals of simulated delight coming from behind shuttered windows were replaced by the soothing tinkle of running water.
Through the bars, he was at last granted a glimpse of the glory for which the capital city of Mallorca was famed. The opening was in what appeared to be a lesser city wall within the city’s outer fortifications, and there, on the other side of a wide, palm shaded avenue rose the magnificent royal palace known as the Almudaina, its honey-stone facade, grand arches and delicately turned pillars illuminated by the warm glow of tow torches set into gardens surrounding a marble-paved courtyard. A series of elaborate fountains played at equidistant intervals between quartets of orange and lemon trees occupying the centre of this stunningly beautiful space, which was being patrolled even now by sentries dressed in gold-trimmed robes of the same pristine white that their king had been seen to wear in battle. By their very bearing, Pedrito could tell that these weren’t expendable arrow fodder of the caste butchered in their thousands by the Christian invasion forces of late, but elite royal guards, selected for their ability to provide the most effective protection possible for their lord and master, Sheikh Abú Yahya Háquem.
Pedrito couldn’t even begin to imagine what life was like behind those bejewelled walls for the mysterious Moorish king of Mallorca. While frequenting the quayside markets with his father over the years, Pedrito had heard many accounts of the Amir’s fabulous wealth and awe-inspring presence, yet he had never actually seen him. He was said to be a brave and ruthless warrior who led by example, yet also a man who, as befitted his lofty station in the social order of the Moors, lived in unashamed luxury, his every whim catered for by suitably extensive assortments of personal attendants, bodyguards, advisors, musicians, cooks, confectioners, physicians, poets, slaves, wives and concubines.
Pedrito smiled a wry smile as he thought of how young King Jaume had admitted he secretly envied the Moorish elite their access to members of the latter two designations; wives and concubines, in constantly-available profusion for the exclusive pleasure of their master. He thought of how Sheikh Abú might currently be enjoying such perfumed delights within his sumptuous Almudaina Palace, while his Christian counterpart was obliged to make do with the company of sweaty, work-weary soldiers in a spartan encampment away to the north of the city. He then pondered how, in the event of King Jaume emerging victorious from the present war, his avowed intention of wiping every vestige of Islam from the face of Mallorca might result in the destruction of all that was so admirable about the city of which he was now enjoying a close-up view, albeit through little more than a pigeonhole.
His gaze drifted above and beyond the battlements of the royal palace to where the massive, gilded dome and intricately carved minarets of Medîna Mayûrqa’s principal mosque glittered mesmerizingly in the moonlight. King Jaume had promised that, if granted victory by God, he w
ould build a mighty cathedral to His glory on that very site. What chance, then, the survival of any other wonders the Moors had bestowed upon a city that had become such a fitting tribute to the pre-eminence of their culture?
Pedrito was stirred from his musings by the sound of a frail voice coming from a recess on the other side of the alley…
‘Have pity on a poor cripple, young master. Alms, please – alms for a wretched soul who has had nothing to eat for two days.’
Pedrito was put instantly on his guard. He knew well enough that seedy dockside areas like this were the haunts of rogues and vagabonds who would cut your throat for a pinch of salt and were capable of more devious tricks than a sackful of Barbary apes.
‘Step out into the open where I can see you!’ he growled, thrusting a hand into a fold in his robe. ‘And be warned – I have a sword here, and I won’t hesitate to use it, no matter how many of you there are!’
He waited, his heart pounding, until a dejected, hooded figure hobbled out from the shadows. In what little light was filtering through the hole in the wall, he could see that it was a woman. She was walking with the aid of a crutch. She was small and stooped, and he could tell from the way her clothes hung on her that she was as skinny as a stick. As she came closer, it became apparent that the long mantle she was wearing had been stitched together from odd scraps of cloth.
She stopped in front of him and held out a shaky hand. ‘Please, young master, give a hungry old woman something to buy a piece of bread. Please, in the name of Allah and all his mercy.’
As pitiable a figure as she cut, and as much as Pedrito was moved to offer her money, he couldn’t help suspecting that she might be acting as some sort of decoy for accomplices who would leap out of the darkness and attack him the moment he produced his purse.
The woman raised her eyes to meet his, and as she did, the hood fell back from her head, revealing a face that, although etched with the telltale signs of a life of hardship and deprivation, still radiated a look that was unexpectedly devoid of bitterness. There was even a suggestion of dogged self-esteem in those pleading eyes now staring into Pedrito’s.
‘As you can see, young master, I am not a leper, neither do I care to wear a veil in the way of other women, because’ – the woman paused to lift the hem of her cloak slightly – ‘because a one-footed liability is unlikely to win any kind of husband, far less one who would require her to be kept in purdah.’
Pedrito felt a chill shiver run through him as the woman then pulled back the sleeve of her cloak with one hand to expose a crude metal hook strapped to her other wrist.
‘With such bodily imperfections as these, what husband would care if another man looked upon my face?’ The woman smiled knowingly as she watched Pedrito’s reaction. ‘I see you have the eyes of a compassionate young man, but spare me your sympathy. I need no one’s pity. All I need is enough to buy a morsel of food.’ She held out her hand again.
Pedrito had seen many pathetic victims of life’s cruelties and inequalities during his years as a galley slave, but, although this old woman had been reduced to begging, there was an underlying air of dignity about her that stirred his admiration – even commanded his respect. Without saying a word, he dipped into his purse and placed a few coins in her palm.
‘Shukran,’ she said, then pulled the hood back over her head. ‘Thank you, young master, and may Allah reward you generously in paradise.’
With that, she limped away, the tapping of her crutch echoing along the alleyway into the night.
18
‘CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE UNEXPECTED KIND’
THE SAME EVENING – IN THE CITY OF MEDÎNA MAYÛRQA…
If the gatekeeper’s brief description of the inn had seemed a mite less than complimentary, first impressions on entering it suggested that he had probably been understating the level of ambient squalor. Although Pedrito couldn’t actually see any rats scurrying or fleas hopping, the general appearance of the place left him in little doubt that they were there in numbers all the same. As if to confirm his suspicions, a cockroach, itself about the size of a young rat, scampered over his foot and disappeared down a crack in the mud floor.
The inn, if indeed it warranted the title, appeared to be one large barn of a place, furnished with rows of rough wooden tables and benches. Along the length of two walls were curtained alcoves, which Pedrito took to be the sleeping accommodation, while along the other two walls were stalls in which were housed a selection of mules, donkeys, sheep and goats. In the middle of the floor, an open fire with a large cauldron suspended above oozed wood smoke that drifted into every corner of the room before eventually finding its way out through a hole in the roof. A small flock of hens pecked optimistically under the tables, while a puffed up cockerel strutted about eyeing his harem with an air of supercilious pride.
As far as Pedrito could make out in the meagre lantern light, the clientele with which the room was crowded included few, if any, refugee peasants. Perhaps the money such humble country folk had paid the gatekeeper had been their last, or perhaps they’d simply preferred to take their chances sleeping in alleyways rather than risk life and limb in the company of such a concentration of human detritus as was assembled within these miserable walls.
Slouched round the tables were the expected mix of harbourside undesirables, together with groups of conspicuously armed men, whom Pedrito took to be members of the Amir’s army, a few huddles of shifty-looking deck hands in dirty, brine-bleached shirts, some sheepskin-caped muleteers and a cluster of Moorish pirates. This latter category was instantly recognisable to Pedrito, having been subjected for so long to the enforced company of their objectionable ilk. As if to add a final touch of melancholy to this uninviting scene, a bald-headed black man sat cross-legged and naked to the waist in the straw of one of the animal pens, his sightless eyes rolling in his head as he plucked the strings of a lute and moaned a wordless dirge to a pair of disinterested donkeys.
Pedrito now decided that, on balance, the truest description the gatekeeper could have given of this establishment would have been a stable polluted with human vermin, rather than an inn infested by rats and fleas. But, either way, it was a hell-hole from which he resolved to make himself scarce just as soon as he’d done what he came here to do.
A fat, greasy-looking fellow, dressed in a robe that might once have been white, was sitting by the fire, sweating profusely as he stirred whatever foul-smelling concoction was bubbling in the cauldron. ‘Ahlan wa sahlan! Welcome!’ he shouted when he noticed Pedrito standing inside the door. ‘You want a bed? A girl? We have the best. Or maybe you want food. We also have the best.’ He tapped the pot with his ladle. ‘Rabbit stew with onions.’
It instantly occurred to Pedrito that the alleys in the kasbah had been surprisingly devoid of cats as he passed through. ‘Uh, no thank you,’ he said to the innkeeper. ‘Just, uhm – just some bread, olives and a cup of water, min fadlak.’
The innkeeper shrugged, burped freely and, with a twitch of his ladle, directed Pedrito to a solitary wooden stool placed against the wall by the door. He then bellowed Pedrito’s order across the room to a grubby waif of a boy cowering by a screened-off opening, which Pedrito assumed led to some sort of kitchen or pantry. Two more well-fed cockroaches raced out as the boy slunk in.
No sooner had Pedrito made himself as comfortable as possible on his stool than he noticed he was being eyed with obvious suspicion by one of three soldiers eating from a communal bowl at a nearby table. He was a sinister-looking character – full-bearded, dark-skinned, with beady eyes exuding menace and a livid scar running down one cheek. His clothes, like those of his companions, looked as if they hadn’t seen the inside of a washtub in recent memory, and comprised a short, sleeveless gambeson worn over a full-length shirt of coarse linen. This suggested to Pedrito that these weren’t members of the elite royal guard which patrolled the Almudaina Palace grounds, but were more likely only lowly foot soldier of the sort who would be considered ex
pendable by their battlefield superiors. And the dour expression worn by Scarface indicated that his allotted rung on the military ladder suited him just fine. He was a potential arrow-stopper, and proud of it.
‘Haven’t seen you in here before,’ he barked at Pedrito, wiping a sliver of soggy onion from his beard with a loose fold of his head scarf. ‘What’s your story, eh?’
Pedrito gave him the same reply he’d given twice already tonight.
Scarface smirked. ‘A farmer, huh? A fat lot of good you’ll be if it comes to helping us defend the city against them Christian pigs.’
‘Well,’ said Pedrito, with what he hoped would pass for a gormless smile, ‘I’m used to hauling ploughed-up rocks off the fields with my mule, so maybe I could help fetch boulders for your war engines, no? I saw the Christians towing what looked like two big rock-throwing contraptions up from Porto Pi on my way here.’ He feigned a nervous look. ‘I mean, I – I hope we’ve got machines in the city good enough to give them their own back, or – or I might have been safer staying hidden out in the country, no?’
The soldiers glanced at each other and chortled.
‘Give them their own back?’ Scarface pooh-poohed. ‘Two big rock-throwing contraptions, says you? Pah! We got a couple of trebuchet mechanical slings bigger than anything they got, plus fourteen really powerful algarrada catapults that’ll smash their tents and everyone in them to smithereens once we gets them going right.’
‘That’s right,’ one of his companions eagerly confirmed, ‘and we should know, because we’ve spent all day setting them up on the ramparts either side of the Bab-al-kofol gate over on the north quarter of the city there. Our boys will pound that camp into the ground before them Christians have had time to shove their silly bits of siege artillery even half way within range of ours.’