Tim Severin - Corsair

‘Here he comes now,’ Diaz whispered in Hector’s ear. ‘Get ready to fall down flat on your face.’ Hector waited, standing long enough to see a bizarre cortège approaching down the trellised causeway. It was led by two immensely tall black soldiers in white gowns and holding muskets. Behind them came half a dozen veiled women wearing a harness over their flowing garments. The traces of their harness led back to a wickerwork chariot on four wheels which they were pulling along at a slow walk. On each side of the chariot marched more members of the Black Guard, and to the rear a footman was holding a yellow and green umbrella over a man riding in the chariot. The latter was wearing a huge white turban, at least a yard in circumference, and even at that distance there was the flash of the jewelled brooch pinned to the cloth. Hector obediently prostrated himself in the dust after he had noted thankfully that the Emperor, for it had to be Moulay riding in the chariot, was wearing green.

‘Bono! Bono!’ a deep voice said some moments later, and he sensed that the chariot had stopped and the Emperor had got out and was speaking over the backs of the courtiers. Still no one on the ground stirred. ‘Allah ibarak fi amrik sidi! God bless thy Power!’ the courtiers around him chorused, their faces still pressed to the dust. ‘You may rise,’ announced the Emperor, and Hector heard the courtiers getting to their feet. As he followed their example, he looked out of the corner of his eye and noted that all the Moors were standing meekly, still staring at the ground. Only when the formal ritual of blessing and response in the name of the Prophet had been completed did they raise their eyes and look upon the potentate they addressed as Light of the Earth.

Moulay Ismail was thinner than Hector had expected. He was a man of medium height with a very black skin. His face, beneath the huge turban, was gaunt, and he had a pronounced hook nose which contrasted with a full-lipped and sensuous mouth. His beard jutted forward and had been dyed light ginger, as had his bushy eyebrows. His dark eyes were expressionless as he surveyed his submissive courtiers, and the Black Guards of his escort watched them suspiciously. The umbrella holder had moved forward so he was now standing directly behind the Emperor and twirling the umbrella constantly. The women had retreated demurely into the background. ‘Admiral!’ Moulay demanded sharply. ‘Where are the men who can tell me about the ship gun?’ He spoke in Arabic, and Hector understood the gist of the question. One of the courtiers, a distinguished-looking Moor in a dark brown robe trimmed with black and silver braid, gestured towards Diaz and his companions, then bowed deeply. Moulay said something which Hector did not catch, and then the courtier, whom Hector took to be the commander of Moulay’s navy, began to translate in heavily accented Spanish.

‘His Majesty the Light and Sun of the Earth wishes to know about the big gun carried on a foreign vessel. We hear reports that a city has no defence against such a weapon.’

Hector felt a nudge. Diaz, standing beside him, wanted him to answer. Hector swallowed hard, and then took the risk he had been calculating from the moment he had seen the Emperor. He replied in Turkish, speaking directly to the Emperor.

‘Your Majesty, the gun is called a mortar. It fires shells called bombs filled with gunpowder that explode on reaching the target. They travel up into the air from the gun and drop from the sky.’

Moulay turned his head to look directly at him, and the black eyes were like coals. Hector felt a shiver of anxiety, but kept his gaze fixed on the great jewel in the Emperor’s turban.

‘Where did you learn to speak Turkish so well?’ Moulay asked.

‘In Algiers, Your Majesty.’

‘And what country are you from?’

‘From a country called Ireland, Your Majesty.’

For a moment Moulay paused, as if considering a rebuke. Then he said curtly, ‘You have told me nothing that I do not know already.’

‘The principle of the gun has been known for many years, Your Majesty,’ Hector went on. ‘But only now is it possible to make bombs which are so destructive.’

‘Are they strong enough to knock down city walls?’ asked Moulay.

‘I believe so, Your Majesty. If they strike at the right point.’

‘Good, then I want to have such guns and bombs, many of them, in my army. That must be arranged.’ The Emperor obviously considered the subject closed because he turned his attention towards one of the courtiers.

‘But Your Majesty . . .’ began Hector when he felt another nudge in his back, much more urgent this time.

It was too late, Moulay had swivelled back to face him, and Hector saw a faint red flush beginning to spread in the Emperor’s cheeks. It was clear that Moulay was not accustomed to being interrupted.

‘What is it!’ he enquired sharply.

‘There are others from the ship who may know more about the gun,’ Hector ventured. ‘Those who were in charge of the vessel. They are now your prisoners.’

Moulay looked towards his Admiral, and raised his eyebrows questioningly. ‘That is correct, Your Magnificence,’ the courtier confirmed smoothly. ‘They will arrive here soon, a party of petty officers and sailors. They are on foot.’

An amused smile twisted the sensuous mouth.

‘I take it that you were a slave on the galley,’ Moulay said, addressing Hector again. ‘So I appoint you to be the examiner of these infidels. You will interrogate them about the gun and its bombs, and pass on that information to my gunfounder. And when you have done that, you can help my Jews assess the amount of ransom we will demand from the King of France for the return of the captives. I am told that the ship flew the flag of France.’

‘I have a favour to ask, Your Majesty.’ For a second time Hector interrupted the Emperor, and he heard a low moan of dismay from Diaz beside him. He also detected two small white patches beginning to appear beside the Emperor’s nostrils. They too, he had been warned, was a sign that the Emperor was losing his temper. But he pressed on, ‘I beseech Your Majesty to help me in finding my sister. She was taken by corsairs and must be somewhere in Barbary. Her name is Elizabeth . . .’

Around him Hector felt the courtiers draw back in alarm as if to distance themselves from such insulting disrespect to their overlord. Two of the Black Guards, sensing the fraught atmosphere, moved forward threateningly. Unexpectedly, Moulay laughed. It was a laugh of incredulity tinged with cruelty. ‘You expect me to help you find your sister? What a creature she must be! Lovelier than a houri in Paradise, and her brother among the most impudent of men.’ Moulay paused to make a strange clucking sound. ‘Why should I care about a stranger’s sister when I have eighty-three brothers and half-brothers and I cannot even count the number of my own sisters. However, you are a brave man. If you deliver a wall-destroying gun to me, a kale-kob, this will be your reward: I will order the release of your sister should you find she is a captive in my realm. I will do this in honour of Allah’s Apostle, peace be upon him, for he released the sister of his mortal enemy Aidiy ibn Hatim, when she was his captive. And by this act he won the allegiance of Aidiy ibn Hatim who thereafter became his treasured companion.’ Again the Emperor made the strange clucking sound, and this time Hector, who had fallen silent, realised that Moulay was summoning one of his cats. There was a scrabbling sound as a magnificent white cat, with a bushy tail and a coat like fluffed silk, clambered up the sides of its enclosure and leaped to the ground. Tail straight in the air, the animal ran across the ground and leaped up into Moulay’s arms who began to cradle and pet it as he repeated, ‘Remember! I want a kale-kob, a castle smasher!’