Corsair

by Tim Severin

  Hector and his companions were riding mules commandeered from the amazigh, while Ruis was mounted on a handsome cavalry horse of a breed native to the region. Somewhere far behind them Piecourt and the group of captives from the galley were on foot, herded along by the black soldiers. Hector did not feel sorry for the premier comite and his people though it had been cold and wet for most of the journey.

  Luis Diaz swerved his horse to avoid a particularly treacherous-looking puddle. ‘When we get to Meknes, I’ll bring you to see the Emperor. He’ll reward me if I’ve done the right thing in fetching you to his presence. But if you anger him and he gets irritated, I’ll suffer. So listen carefully to what I have to say. First of all, take note of what Moulay is wearing. If he is wearing green, that’s all right because that’s his holy colour and Moulay prides himself on being a direct descendant of the Prophet and a good Mussulman. He always has a copy of the Qur’an carried in front of him, prays five times a day, observes the month of fasting, all that sort of thing. So if his clothes are green, he’s likely to be in a good mood.’

  The Spaniard adjusted his plumed hat to a more rakish angle before continuing.

  ‘But if Moulay is wearing yellow, be very, very careful in what you say. That’s his killing colour. On the days he dresses in yellow, he tends to have people executed or mutilated. Of course I’ll try to avoid your meeting him on a yellow day, but it may be too late by the time we get an appointment. But whatever colour he is wearing, you must always treat him with the greatest deference. Fall down on your face before him, answer his questions honestly and clearly, and above all, don’t go so near to him that you touch him. The last time that happened, the unfortunate man had his arm instantly sliced off with a scimitar by one of the Black Guards. And watch out for changes in the emperor’s complexion. Though his skin is tawny, you can tell his mood by the reddish tinge that spreads right across his face when he is getting angry. If that happens, stand clear. Something terrible is going to happen.’

  Hector decided this was the moment to ask the question that had been troubling him ever since Dan had told him about the Emperor’s harem. ‘Are there any women in the palace?’ he asked. ‘And is there any way of making contact with them?’

  Diaz gave a yelp of sarcastic laughter. ‘You are looking to get yourself treated with something nastier than being thrown to the lions, like being stretched out on a rack and sawn in two parts, from the crutch upwards. That was the fate of the last person who meddled with the Emperor’s women. Of course there are women in the palace. Moulay’s harem is the largest in the known world, several hundred women according to rumour, and he considers himself a great stallion. He rarely lies with the same woman twice. One of the French doctors told me that in the space of three months no less than forty sons were born to Moulay in the harem. The palace grounds swarm with his children, and a pestilential pack of brats they are. Completely out of control as no one can lay a hand on them.’

  Though shaken, Hector persisted. ‘Is it true that he prefers light-skinned women?’

  Again, the sarcastic bark of laughter. ‘The Light of the Earth, as he is called, prefers virgins of whatever colour. But he’s not choosy. If someone’s wife takes his fancy, then he’ll make the necessary arrangements, for he pretends he follows the Qur’an in all things . . .’

  Seeing Hector had not understood, the Spaniard went on, ‘The Qur’an forbids adultery, so the Emperor makes sure that the woman becomes a widow.’

  ‘The man sounds like an ogre.’

  ‘Oh, he certainly is,’ answered the officer blithely, and spurred his mount forward.

  MEKNES CAME IN SIGHT the following afternoon, and the travellers paused to take in the view. The city was built on a spur of land overlooking the river Fakran, which flowed across their path on its way towards the Atlantic. The valley floor was intensively cultivated, the greenery of the fields and orchards rising up the slope to lap against the suburbs of the imperial capital. The nearest houses were unexceptional, low buildings in the natural colours of the mud and clay from which they were built, their roofs of tile or thatch. Behind them stood the city proper, a great number of more substantial houses huddled together in a dense mass with the domes and spires of mosques rising above the congestion. There was no sign of a city rampart. Instead, to the left from where the travellers stood, a great boundary wall reached to encompass what was almost a second city. This wall, painted white, was four stories high and seemed to go on for ever, curving away out of sight. Hector judged that it was perhaps three miles long, and beyond it he glimpsed the tops of pavilions and towers, turrets clad in shining green tiles, the domes of mosques, some of them gilded, and a series of edifices in blue and white whose functions he could not guess. Clearly the whole enormous conglomeration was some sort of gigantic, sprawling palace. Beside him Bourdon let out an exclamation. ‘That place makes even King Louis seem restrained!’ Luis Diaz looked across at him enquiringly, and the pickpocket added, ‘I mean the King’s new palace at Versailles. His builders had just made a start on it when I was last in Paris, so I went to have a look. It was vast, yet it was nothing compared to this. What manner of king could command such an undertaking?’

  ‘Not a king, but an emperor,’ corrected the Spaniard, ‘and the work never ends. Moulay wants his palace to extend from here to the sea, that’s more than eighty miles.’

  ‘He’s mad!’ muttered Bourdon.

  ‘Perhaps so. But that’s no consolation to the poor wretches who are building it. Squads of men are perpetually working on the wall. They are either heightening it or lengthening it, or painting it, or repairing it because sections of it are always cracking and crumbling or falling down. And inside the enclosure it is even worse. The Emperor is forever ordering some new building or other. Then he tears down one after only six months or wants it changed. It is mayhem. But come, you will see for yourself,’ and he rode forward down the hill.

  Hector could not keep his eyes off the palace enclosure as he rode forward. Perhaps this was where his sister was to be found, he wondered. As he approached, he began to hear a curious sound. At first it was only the barking of dogs. He had never heard such a cacophony of howling and baying in all his life. It was as if the entire city was populated by the animals. Noticing his puzzlement Luis Diaz commented, ‘You’ll get used to that din. The city is plagued by dogs, most of them are strays and curs. They run in packs and eat the rubbish. Yet no one seems to do anything about it. Maybe because the Emperor is fond of animals, and the citizens fear his anger if they cull them.’

  ‘It’s not just the barking of the dogs,’ Hector answered, ‘it’s that other sound, the thumping in the background.’

  ‘Like I said, the building work is constant in Meknes, and nearly everything is made out of hardened clay. What you are hearing is the sound of that clay being pounded into position. Look over there, and you’ll see what I mean.’

  They were passing along the face of the palace wall, close enough to see the work in progress. At the foot of the wall a gang of about forty men was standing over great wooden troughs and using shovels and heavy bars to mix what looked like a thick pinkish-yellow dough. Other men were then carrying buckets and baskets of the stuff up crude ladders propped against the wall. Reaching the top of the wall they tipped the mixture out in front of a third team standing on the summit. These men were creating the strange thumping noise by pounding down on the mix in unison, using great wooden mallets to beat it into shape between heavy wooden planks and adding to the height of the rampart. The scene reminded Hector of a colony of ants working to fortify their nest. Looking more closely, he noted that all the labourers were white men. They were dressed in ragged clothes, bare-headed and without shoes. They seemed half-starved and desperate. He realised they were slaves.

  Diaz led them into the city itself, guiding them along narrow lanes ankle-deep in mud. A number of the passers-by wore the grey hooded cloaks of the amazigh, but the majority were Moors or Arabs in brightly coloure
d jackets sewn with decorative buttons and wearing red caps. Their loose linen drawers reached down to mid calf, leaving their feet bare, a sensible arrangement given the condition of the muddy streets, though some of the wealthier ones teetered along on thick-soled cork slippers trying to steer clear of the muck. Against the damp and chill, most were swathed in a fine white blanket wrapped around the body, leaving only the right arm bare. They showed little interest in Hector and his friends, and even Karp with his damaged face attracted scarcely a second glance, which left Hector wondering if such mutilation was perhaps another of the imperial punishments.

  ‘This is where I live,’ announced Diaz as they reached an unprepossessing building that looked more like a cattle byre than a dwelling and, after tying up their mounts, pushed open the door. Inside, the place was no more attractive, a large room poorly furnished with a couple of tables and some plain chairs and benches. Several doors apparently led off to bedchambers, and there must have been a kitchen somewhere to the rear as Hector could smell cooking. He also noticed that the roof leaked in one corner.

  ‘It’s not much, I know,’ said Diaz, ‘but this is what the Emperor assigned to his Spanish officers. We were told to evict the Jew who owns the place here and, believe it or not, the Jew now has to pay rent to Moulay for letting us live here. I know it makes no sense. But you’ll find that is the rule here in Meknes. Everything is back to front.’

  A trio of white men, dressed in vaguely military costume, were sitting at one of the tables, playing cards and drinking from earthenware mugs. ‘Let me introduce you to my fellow officers,’ said Diaz. ‘This is Roberto, Carlos and Lopez. Like myself, they are all cavalrymen. A couple of musketeers from Castille are also billeted here, but right now they are away on campaign. The Emperor has an army in the south, putting down a local rebellion among the mountain people, and they’ve been sent to help out. You can use their room until they return.’ He clapped his hands and shouted out for food to be brought. Somewhere to the rear of the building a voice answered him.

  Over a meal of grey, stringy boiled mutton and couscous Diaz explained to his countrymen that he had brought the castaways to Meknes after hearing about the great mortar. ‘A wise decision,’ said the man called Roberto as he idly shuffled the pack of cards. ‘If Moulay had learned about the gun, and that you were nearby and failed to act, he’d have had you tossed.’ He turned towards the visitors. ‘Being tossed, for your information, does not mean being thrown out of the imperial army. It means just what it says. Being thrown up in the air, and you’ll be lucky to escape with your life when it is done by the Black Guard. They are very skilled at it. The Emperor gives the nod, and those devils step forward and grab you, one at each limb. Then they fling you up in the air, and stand back. It’s a fine art and they have it to perfection. They calculate how you will fly up in the air, how far you go, and whether you turn or spin.’ He gave a sardonic chuckle. ‘A bit like judging the way the bomb flies out from that big gun Luis just told us about. When you get tossed, the Black Guard stand back and let you crash back on the ground. They can arrange it so you fall on your face, or your back, or your side. Whatever they choose. It is up to them whether you are stunned or merely bruised, or break a leg or an arm. Then if the Emperor commands, they’ll do it several times so you are suitably battered. Or if he wants you dead, they can make sure that you land on your head at just the right angle to break your neck. It helps, of course, when they do this over a marble floor.’ He began to deal out the cards to his companions. ‘For a moment when you first came in,’ he added, looking at Dan, ‘I thought you might be a member of the Black Guard, and that gave me a fright, I must admit.’

  ‘Those tax collectors with you were they Black Guardsmen?’ Bourdon asked Diaz.

  ‘Not exactly, though one day they might become that,’ he answered. ‘Blacks are the backbone of the Emperor’s army. Some are recruited from the tribes. But the majority are bred to the service. They are the sons of soldiers who have served previous rulers, and are brought up to a military life. They are trained to be tough, live in special camps, exercise in fighting with sword and spear, and are shown how to handle a musket.’

  Here one of the Spaniards interrupted. ‘Not that they use guns very much. The weapons they are given are shoddy rubbish, and likely to blow up in your face. And the powder is no better. Half the time it doesn’t explode. The Emperor’s infantry often finish up using their muskets as clubs. Still, don’t let me interrupt our friend’s yarn.’

  Diaz waved his hand dismissively. ‘You may have noticed that my escort of tax collectors was lightly dressed even though we were in the mountains. That’s part of their training. They are issued only with a thin cotton shift and no footwear, not even a turban. After five years’ instruction they are considered to be fit for duty. Later, if they distinguish themselves in battle, they may advance to the elite company which protects the Emperor’s person. Then they’re Black Guards, and utterly loyal to Moulay. He has them drilled like mastiffs, vicious and ready to attack anyone.’ He stretched his legs to ease his riding muscles. ‘But enough of that. It’s time to return my horse to the imperial stables, and we might as well drop off the mules there too. You’ll see for yourself that Moulay’s cavalry get better equipment than his foot soldiers.’

  Remounted, Diaz took Hector and his companions back through the muddy city streets to a great gateway in the outer wall of the royal enclosure. Its enormous doors of worked bronze stood open and, as they passed under the archway, Luis said, ‘We buried a wolf’s head here last year when this gate was used for the first time. The Emperor killed the wolf – it was from his menagerie – with a scimitar. Then he told us to bury the head in the centre of the gateway, while he himself interred the body outside in the main road. I suppose it’s meant to bring good luck.’ He turned his horse to the left as soon as they were inside the gate, explaining that it was wiser to avoid the centre of the palace compound. ‘You never know where you might run into Moulay,’ he warned. ‘He roams the palace with his escort, poking and prying into every corner. If he comes upon a work gang putting up a building, he’s been known to take off his outer robes, strip down to his shirt and seize a shovel, then work alongside them in some sort of frenzy. Equally, if he is in a bad mood and thinks someone is slacking, he’ll send in the Black Guard with cudgels and have the labourers thrashed on the spot.’

  They rode for some distance when, at the far side of the compound, they entered on a broad, well-made roadway carried on a series of arches across a shallow valley. ‘I always feel a little more relaxed when I reach this point,’ admitted Diaz. ‘There’s less chance of meeting Moulay out here. The only time he’s likely to come this way is if he’s taken it into his head to go on an outing with some of his harem. He has them put up on mules and donkeys, and he rides at the head of the procession like some sort of peacock. His eunuch guards fan out ahead to clear away any onlookers, using whips and swords. But everyone who has any sense has already made himself scarce. Should you be unlucky enough to be trapped with nowhere to run, the best course is to bolt behind a bush and fall flat, with your face to the ground and hoping you are not noticed.’

  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 serv
ice 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.’