Tim Severin - Corsair

The Spaniard gestured towards the ground beneath his horse’s hooves. ‘Moulay boasts that his horses regularly walk over the heads of his Christian captives. There are twenty-four arches to this causeway, and all but the central one have been closed off to make a row of cells. That’s where his Christian prisoners are lodged. We are actually riding over the slave pens.’

‘Dan and I have spent time in the bagnios of Algiers,’ Hector told him. ‘So we know what it’s like to be a slave.’

‘So how did you get out? Did you convert?’

‘Yes, we both turned Turk. It seemed the only escape.’

Luis nodded his understanding. ‘Not much different from my deserting my post in Ceuta, and joining the Emperor’s army. The trouble is that there’s little chance of going back. I doubt I would be accepted again into the service of Spain and so I had better make the rest of my life here, or perhaps I will find my way out to the Americas where my history would not be discovered, and even if it was, no one would pay much attention.’ He pointed ahead to a series of long, low buildings arranged in parallel lines. ‘There are the imperial stables now. To a cavalryman they rate as the eighth wonder of the world.’

In the next hour Hector understood the Spaniard’s enthusiasm. The stables of the royal palace were awe-inspiring. There were three miles of barn-like buildings, and an army of ostlers and grooms was hard at work, cleaning and watering, sweeping up the horses’ droppings, and trundling barrow loads of manure out to the gently steaming middens. ‘There are never less than a thousand horses stabled here, with one groom for every five animals so the place is kept spotlessly clean,’ Diaz announced. He was relishing his self-appointed task as a guide and clearly was someone who was prepared to talk for hours about horses and their care. They were his passion. ‘Note the drains of running water which run the length of each stable so the horse piss is carried away. You will notice also that there are no mangers. The local custom is to feed the horses with chopped hay and sweet herbs strewn on the ground, and use nose bags for their barley. Those outhouses over there are filled with enough fodder for at least six months.’

He marched to the end of one stable block and threw open the door to a vast harness room where saddles and bridles hung in neat lines. A little farther on was an armoury with rack after rack of sabres and muskets which reminded Dan of what he had seen at the Marseilles Arsenal. But the Spaniard saved his greatest surprise to the last. He led his companions to a smaller stable, set apart from the others, and more substantially built. Nodding to an attendant, he led Hector and his friends inside where they found themselves looking at two dozen horses kept in open stalls. The animals turned their heads to gaze at the men, and one of them whickered softly. ‘Look under them,’ said Diaz. Peering in, Hector saw that each animal, instead of standing on sawdust or straw, was standing on a fine Turkish carpet. ‘These horses are revered,’ explained Diaz. ‘They eat only hand-sifted grain and fresh green stuff. No one but the Emperor himself may ride them, and he does that very rarely. Instead they are led at the head of parades, all decked out in rich trappings of silk and brocade, wearing harnesses made of tooled leather inlaid with precious stones, silver and gold thread woven into their manes and tails. An attendant, preferably a Christian slave, follows close behind to catch their droppings in a bucket, while another groom immediately lifts up their tails to wipe them.’

‘Why all this for a bunch of ageing nags?’ demanded Bourdon sceptically.

‘Because these horses have made the journey to Mecca,’ answered Diaz, ‘and don’t scoff. If you are ever in real trouble with the Emperor, your best chance is to throw yourself between the feet of a sacred horse when the Emperor rides by, and claim the Emperor’s benevolence. That way you at least stand a chance of having your request granted.’

IT WAS ANOTHER two days before a palace messenger showed up at the Spaniards’ billet with a summons. Diaz was ordered to appear before the Emperor with the survivors from the galley and they were to explain the workings of the great cannon. ‘I told you that Moulay is keen to capture Tangier,’ the Spaniard said gleefully to Hector and the others as they hurried towards the palace. ‘Normally one has to wait weeks for an audience with Moulay.’

‘But none of us – Dan, Bourdon, Karp nor I – know much about the mortar,’ Hector objected. ‘All we did was prepare the bombs, load them, and clean the weapon.’

‘But you must have noted the shape and size of the gun, the thickness of its barrel, the design of its chamber, the way the bombs were prepared. Put all those details together and there should be enough information for Moulay’s master gun founder to make a copy. And if he is able to make a replica, we will all be richly rewarded.’

Despite Diaz’s confidence, Hector was full of misgivings as the Spaniard led them through the wolf’s-head gate. The weather had improved, and it was a warm, bright morning. They walked along a series of avenues in the palace grounds. Now and then Diaz had to stop to get his bearings, apologising that so much building work had been done since his last audience with Moulay five months earlier that he was in danger of losing his way. ‘The messenger said that we were to meet the Emperor by the place where he keeps his cats,’ he explained.

‘You mean at the lion pit? That doesn’t sound very encouraging,’ commented Bourdon dryly.

‘No, no, his cats. The Emperor is very fond of cats. There are more than forty of them, all sorts of colours and types, from tabbies to pure white. The Emperor collects cats. He is sent the most remarkable ones from all over his kingdom, and also from foreign countries. He has cats with eyes of different colours, long-furred cats, cats that love to swim, cats with no tails. He keeps them in a special enclosure and they are trained to come to him when he calls.’

They passed through a bewildering array of pavilions, arcades and courtyards, many of them embellished with marble fountains and reflecting pools. They skirted around a sunken garden planted with cypress trees and surrounded by balustrades of jasper, and then made a detour around a handsome colonnaded building which Diaz warned was the residence of two of the Emperor’s principal wives. Everywhere was a profusion of inlay work, cut-stone tracery and delicate stucco, and when Diaz risked taking a short cut down a long corridor leading through a reception hall, Hector marvelled at the painted plaster ceiling overhead and the thousands of small tiles, red and green and white, which had been laid to make a chequerwork pavement. Very occasionally he glimpsed a servant who quickly darted away out of sight, so this entire, remarkable assemblage of buildings and open spaces gave the impression of being deserted.

Finally they came upon a small group of courtiers standing beside yet another sunken garden. It was crossed by a causeway covered with trellised vines so that it formed a long leafy tunnel. Judging by the nervous expressions on the faces of the courtiers, who were all dressed in rich Moorish costume, they too were awaiting the arrival of the Emperor. Hector glanced into the netted enclosure behind them, and saw it was home to a variety of cats who were sunning themselves, sleeping or prowling the perimeter of their cage.

The largest and most magnificent of the cats, a spotted creature the size of a small leopard, alerted them to the approach of the Emperor. Long before the humans could detect anything unusual, the animal suddenly sat up and gazed with its huge, yellow eyes down the leafy tunnel. Then the big cat yawned luxuriously, curving its pink tongue, rose to its feet and padded over towards the edge of the enclosure where it sat down again and gazed fixedly towards the causeway. The cluster of courtiers stirred with apprehension, adjusting their robes, shifting from one foot to another, making small coughing sounds as they cleared their throats.