by Peter Kerr
It took yet another swift decision by King Jaume to nip in the bud what might have proved to be a telling psychological victory for the enemy in the grim struggle for Medîna Mayûrqa.
‘Quickly!’ he shouted to the commander of the nearest battery of war engines. ‘Roll out two of our windlass crossbows – the most powerful ones. And load them with three long bolts each – one machine to be discharged immediately after the other.’
Two migfhty ballista catapults were duly trundled forward to just inside the stockade gates, their draw cables winched back and cocked, their javelins slotted into position. Then, on the king’s order, the gates were flung open and the deadly darts released. The first salvo went straight through the bodies of their unsuspecting victims like daggers through pieces of cloth, the second thudding into the remaining Moors as they made a desperate attempt to get back into the mine.
A smile of satisfaction crossed the king’s face. ‘That,’ he snarled through clenched teeth, ‘will teach those vulgar Saracen moles that calling Christians names is extremely impolite.’ He then climbed onto the framework of an adjacent trebuchet and shouted to everyone within earshot, ‘Be of good cheer, brave lads! Once again, God has shown that He is with us in times of adversity. So, let us carry on with our good work in His name, and you have my word as the one whom God has chosen as your king that your reward will be great here on earth, and even greater should you join in heaven those valiant brothers who have died today in the furtherance of our holy mission against the disbelievers.’
Yet again, any spirits that may have been flagging within the Christian ranks were uplifted by King Jaume’s infectious enthusiasm for the cause, ably bolstered, it has to be said, by lava flows of fire-and-brimstone rhetoric from the redoubtable Friar Miguel Fabra. And so work on undermining the foundations of the city walls continued with renewed vigour, while efforts were redoubled to complete the bridging of the moat.
*
As the days passed, the Moors’ will to hold out revealed no outward sign of waning, so energetic was their countering of the Christian bombardment and so swift their shoring up of associated damage to their fortifications. Yet a hint of doubt creeping into their belief in maintaining this level of resistance was ultimately minfested by their king requesting a parley with someone of authority on the Spanish side. Accordingly, as was the accepted practice on such occasions, King Jaume instructed his senior general, En Nunyo Sans, to ride out with a small party of retainers to a prearranged rendezvous outside the Porto Pi Gate at the south-western corner of the city. It was presumed that this location had been suggested by the Moorish king because of its safe distance from the current theatre of hostilities and its relative proximity to the sanctuary of his Almudaina Palace.
Pedrito had been called upon as usual by King Jaume to translate when, under a white flag, the Moorish envoy had made the original approach to deliver his Amir’s message. Nevertheless, the king was later obliged to inform Pedrito that, as expected, Abel Babiel, the Jewish financier from Zaragoza, had insisted on assuming the role of interpreter for the momentous meeting with the Saracen supremo. Just as Pedrito had anticipated, however, he felt more relieved than slighted by this disclosure, his natural curiosity to see the man who had fathered him tempered by misgivings about how he might react when confronted by the pitiless brute who had ruined his mother’s life.
In the event, the parley turned out to be a total waste of time, the report delivered by En Nunyo Sans to King Jaume revealing only that, when asked what he wished to say, the Moorish King had replied, ‘Nothing. What is it you wish to say to me?’ After a further short but confused exhange of words, the meeting had broken up without anything being achieved.
King Jaume called together the Privy Council of his foremost nobles and churchmen to discuss this apparent snub, only for them to come to the somewhat presumptuous conclusion that the time would come soon enough when this insolent Moorish upstart would be glad to speak with due deference to his Christian adversaries – and, what’s more, to come to terms. In the meantime, the siege of the city should continue as before.
All of this was related to Pedrito by the king immediately after he had drawn the assembly of his counsellors to a close. ‘It appears to me,’ he said, ‘that something of what the Moorish king attempted to convey to En Nunyo may have been lost in translation, no?’
‘Who’s to say?’ was Pedrito’s diplomatic reply. ‘Perhaps he just wanted to see what a Christian nobleman looked like close-up.’
The king shot him a cynical look. ‘No, Little Pedro, you can sidestep the issue as much as you like – and I admire your tact – but I have to say that the translating ability of Senyor Babiel is being called into question here.’ He stroked his beard in his customary pensive way. ‘I shall have to be more guileful should a similar situation arise again.’
Pedrito was quick to reaffirm that he had no wish to intrude on any commitment the king had made with the Zaragozan gentleman who had donated so much money to this crusade.
‘Donated?’ The king gave a derisory chuckle. ‘Lent is the operative word! No, no, have no fear, Abel Babiel will want full repayment of what he has advanced, and with a hefty brokerage on top. And that’s all in addition to the share of potential Mallorcan spoils he negotiated for his people.’
‘So, what you’re saying, senyor, is that you want to strip him of his duties as your interpreter, but without giving him the impression that you think he isn’t up to the job. You don’t want to risk offending him, correct?’
‘To put it bluntly, Little Pedro – yes!’ King Jaume fiddled with his beard again. ‘Hmm, but easier said than done. As I suggested before, a Jew with an abacus can be a more potent force than a whole army of scimitar-rattling Saracens. And don’t forget that soldiers of that wily persuasion helped the Muslim thieves take Spain from its rightful Christian owners in the first place.’ He took a deep breath, smiled resignedly and patted Pedrito on the shoulder. ‘But at least I know, amic, that I can depend on you to help me out if such a tricky situation concerning Senyor Babiel should arise again, sí?’
Pedrito dipped his head in a stiff little bow of assent, though with his fingers crossed behind his back. While having no desire to default on his commitment to King Jaume, he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that, whatever the future held for him, it would be all the better for his not having to bear the memory of coming face-to-face with the man whose blood coursed through his veins, but whom he would never think of as his father.
It seemed that he had been relieved of his dilemma, when, shortly afterwords, En Pere Corneyl, one of the barons who had attended the earlier meeting of royal counsellors, came back to the king’s tent with what he described as a potentially vital breakthough. A member of En Pere’s retinue had just returned to camp from leading a patrol through the surrounding countryside, during which he had been approached by a man who introduced himself as Don Gil de Alagón, a former Spanish knight, who, after settling on the island, had converted to Islam and had adopted the surname of Mohammad. This man had offered to act as a go-between in negotiating a settlement that would end the siege to the satisfaction of both parties. Because he was on intimate terms with all the most influential Moors on the island, as well as being a fluent speaker of Arabic, this man felt certain that, if he were allowed to enter the city, he could convince King Abû Yahya Háquem to capitulate, thus ending the war without any further loss of life.
Pedrito felt a weight being lifted from his shoulders.
However, suspicion was writ large on King Jaume’s face as he responded to En Pere’s announcement. ‘No military commander worth a straw submit’s so meekly without demanding something in return, so what are the terms, allegedly acceptable to both parties, that this renegade Spanish knight believes he can elicit from the Moorish king?’
‘Simply, Majestat, that the Moorish king would repay to you whatever the expedition has cost, together with a guarantee that all of the Christian forces would be allowed to
return home to the mainland safe and sound.’
It seemed to Pedrito that the king’s guffaw of contempt could well have been heard as far away as the Almudaina Palace itself.
‘You are a good man, En Pere,’ he said at length, ‘and I have no doubt that you speak with the best of intentions. However, you have my permission to relate to the traitor, Gil Mohammad, or whatever infidel name he calls himself, that my mission, undertaken in the name of the one true God, is to return Mallorca to the followers of our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, even if I’m offered enough gold to pave all the ground between this camp and the mountains yonder, I won’t return to the mainland until my mission is complete. So, En Pere, unless you, or any other of my train, wish to feel the sting of my wrath, never be tempted to convey such a blasphemous message to me again – ever!’
Thus ended Pedrito’s short-lived respite from interpreter-related anxieties.
That aside, the king’s decision proved to be a shrewd one – as did the earlier prediction of his Privy Council. Before another day had passed, a fresh plea for a parley had been delivered by an envoy of the Moorish King. Once again, Pedrito was summoned to the royal compound.
‘I take it that you and Babiel the rabbi have never met?’ King Jaume checked, after shepherding Pedrito into the privacy of his tent.
Pedrito confirmed that this was the case.
Smiling smugly, the king rubbed his hands together. ‘Excellent! Now, here’s what I propose to do in order to avoid another linguistic fiasco like the last time.’
He then proceeded to explain that the second meeting between En Nunyo Sans and King Abû would be held, as before, outside the Gate of Porto Pi. On this occasion, a small tent would be pitched on site, with only the two main protagonists and their personal attendants being allowed inside. Both En Nunyo and the Moorish king would be escorted once again by small companies of mounted guards, the respective units to wait on opposite sides of the tent until the meeting reached a conclusion.
‘And now I come to the ingenious bit,’ King Jaume winked. ‘You, Little Pedro, will act as En Nunyo’s orderly, and you will stand holding his horse for him immediately outside the tent while the negotiations are being conducted. In this way, you’ll be able to listen to what’s being said inside, and to judge if what the Saracen king says is being accurately translated for En Nunyo.’
‘Sounds feasible enough,’ Pedrito shrugged. ‘But what if I think Senyor Babiel has made some mistakes? I mean, I can hardly shout corrections to En Nunyo through the canvas. That would surely defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it? A bit of an insult to Senyor Babiel, no?’
King Jaume shook his head impatiently. ‘There you go with your naïve thinking again.’ He motioned Pedrito to come in close, then, looking furtively about, said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘This is where the skill of politics comes in. You keep your mouth tightly shut outside that tent, while making sure your ears are wide open. You also make sure you remember everything that’s said – and I mean everything – and you don’t speak a word to anyone of any mistakes made in translation by Babiel until you return to me here.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then, depending on the significance of what you have to say about such mistakes – if any – I will repeat your findings to my Privy Council of barons and bishops.’
Pedrito scratched his head. ‘That’s all very well, but surely that’ll be a real slap in the face for Senyor Babiel, and I thought offending him was precisely what you wanted to avoid doing.’
The king shook his head again, but in exasperation this time. ‘Politics – you just don’t grasp the subtleties, do you?’
Pedrtio shrugged his shoulders again. ‘Evidently not.’
The king lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘The point is, amic, that Babiel will be instructed to return to his quarters after the parley and won’t even know that all this has been going on behind his back. Understand now?’
‘I’m beginning to,’ Pedrito muttered. ‘Politics – lies – deceipt. One and the same thing, if you ask me.’
‘Nothing wrong with that, if your motives are worthy.’ King Jaume cast Pedrito an incriminating look. ‘As when borrowing – not stealing – horse blankets and saddle rugs from my tack store, eh?’
Pedrito felt the blood drain from his face. ‘You – you mean you knew that I’d –’
‘You don’t survive being a king from the age of six to twenty-one without making a habit of knowing everything that goes on in your household, Master Blànes.’ Scowling, he stared into Pedrito’s eyes like a fox that’s cornered a rabbit.
Pedrito gulped. ‘You, ehm, you called me Master Blànes just then,’ he said, unable to think of a more pertinent response.
The king continued to stare him out, saying nothing.
Pedrito persevered with his feeble attempt to divert the subject away from things ‘borrowed’ from the king’s stable. ‘What I mean to say is that you usually only call me Master Blànes when there are other people around. You know, when you’re being formal … sort of.’
A few more tense moments of silence followed, before the king said, ‘That’s politics for you. It’s suits me not to let it be known that I call you by your fist name, far less your pet name. What’s more important for you, though, is that I only employ such terms of familiarity towards friends – people I can trust – and there are precious few of those.’
The king had managed to make Pedrito feel really small. ‘What can I say, senyor? All I can do is apologise, and I do – most sincerely. I didn’t mean to steal from you. It’s just, well, it’s just that I didn’t think you would –’
‘Give you a few items of horse garb to help make life more comfortable for your mother up there in that cave?’ The king tutted admonishingly. ‘Honestly, Master Blànes, I thought better of you. I’ve told you often enough that I’m not a heartless man. Didn’t you believe me? Wasn’t it proof enough that I gave you permission to visit your mother and to take her food from my kitchens?’
Pedrito hung his head. ‘I can’t expect you to forgive me, or to even understand. But it was precisely because I was so grateful to you for providing food for my mother and Saleema that I didn’t want to impose further on your generosity by asking for blankets and things – especially for Muslims.’ He rolled his shoulders in his characteristically self-conscious way. ‘And that’s why, on the spur of the moment, I decided to –’
‘Borrow them?’
Pedrito ventured a glance at the king’s face, expecting to see that his earlier scowl had become even more menacing. However, to his surprise and relief, a twinkle had appeared in the king’s eyes.
‘I do enjoy teasing you, Little Pedro,’ he said with a guarded smile. ‘I suspected – hoped – that this was why you hadn’t asked me for those things.’ His smile widened. ‘And so Saleema is the name of your little concubine, eh? Very becoming, I’m sure, and I trust she isn’t too upset at having to snuggle up with you between horse blankets instead of the silk sheets of the harem?’
Pedrito thought it best to ignore this suggestively leading question.
The king frowned again. ‘I put my trust in you, amic, because I believed you earned it. But please don’t ever think that this automatically entitles you to anything. In future, if you want something from me, ask and I’ll gladly give it – within reason, of course.’
Feeling suitably contrite, Pedrito lowered his head again, while thanking the king for his kindness and leniency.
‘Kindness is part of my nature – just think of how I treated those little nesting swallows I told you about – but leniency is a quality I’m still working on – just think of how I treated the head of a certain Saracen who had the gall to describe himself to one of my nobles as “a great conqueror by the grace of Allah”.’ King Jaume then gave Pedrito a heartening slap on the back. ‘But enough of all that. There’s the little matter of a parley with the leader of the enemy to be getting on with, and you, Little Pedro, are to be your king’s ear
s.’ He tweaked Pedrito’s cheek. ‘How many ex-galley slaves will be able to boast to their grandchildren about that, eh?’
*
As it transpired, Pedrito’s dread of confronting his natural father proved to be unwarranted, for the simple reason that King Abû and his attendants were already in the tent when En Nunyo Sans and his company arrived at the rendezvous. Formalities were exchanged in grunts and sign language between the captains of the two opposing groups of guards, En Nunyo and Abel Babiel entered the tent, and the parley began without resort to undue ceremony.
It soon became obvious to Pedrito that Senyor Babiel’s knowledge of Arabic was indeed either somewhat sketchy or he was confused by the Mallorcan dialect being spoken. In any case, the negotiations were stilted to say the least, and Pedrito had to use all his powers of concentration to keep abreast of what was going on, and to decide if what was being said to En Nunyo by his interpreter was a true representation of what the Moorish King actually intended.
The first thing that struck Pedrito was the deep timbre of King Abû’s voice. If his appearance matched the way he sounded, then he must have boasted a very commanding presence indeed. Yet his opening gambit had been more conciliatory than domineering…
‘As I have never done any wrong to your king, it astounds me that he so violently seeks to gain control of this kingdom which was given to me by Allah. However, I am a man of the world, and a fair one. I realise that this expedition must have cost your king dearly, so I hereby guarantee to pay over to him whatever sum is involved and to ensure that all of you can retrun thereafter in peace and goodwill from whence you came. Tell your king to name his price, and he has my promise that it will be paid in full withing five days.’
Since no reply was immediately forthcoming from En Nunyo Sans, King Abû expanded on what he had just said. ‘And lest your king be under any delusion, please advise him that I have enough arms, provisions of all kinds and everything else that is needed to defend the city for longer than he can ever hope to besiege it. What’s more, he is welcome to send witnesses to see for themselves that what I say is true.’