by Tim Severin
Again and again, troop after troop, the riders charged down in the fantasia, fired their guns, wheeled around, and raced away only to regroup and charge down again. As Hector got over his surprise, he began to recognise the pattern in their movements. There were ten squadrons of riders, each performing their manoeuvres at the full gallop, perhaps a thousand horses in total. Each squadron was distinguished by its own particular feature – the colour of the bridles, the size and colour of their horses. One squadron in particular was more magnificent than all the rest. It was composed mostly of horses that were the palest cream in colour. Their tails and manes had been allowed to grow almost to the ground so that they streamed out spectacularly as they galloped, and their discipline was perfect. In that pale squadron three horses stood out. Two were jet black and the third was a handsome pale grey covered with black spots. Each time this squadron charged forward, these three horses were always a few paces ahead of the rest, and they were controlled by a single horseman. The animals were superbly schooled for they stayed close together at a full gallop and allowed their rider to leap from saddle to saddle, occasionally throwing up his musket and catching it again. And it was always this same rider who, as he came careering up to the crowd in advance of his squadron, was the one who gave the command to fire the guns. On the third occasion that this squadron, now like ghostly riders in the near-darkness, completed the fantasia, their leader came to a halt so close to Hector that flecks of foam from his horse’s mouth – it was the speckled grey – flew out and landed on his face. At that moment Hector recognised the rider was Moulay Ismail.
EIGHTEEN
JOSEPH MAIMARAN’S hooded eyes regarded Hector with the same caution shown on the young man’s previous visit to his house only twenty-four hours earlier.
‘I am sorry to disturb you again,’ Hector began awkwardly, still standing at the half-open door, ‘but there have been important developments since we last spoke. They concern the French prisoners.’
Maimaran could see that his visitor was agitated. Hector had arrived alone in the Mellah and his manner was hesitant, yet eager. Without a word he led the young man along a narrow corridor to the plainly furnished back room where he normally discussed business with his commercial clients. Waving Hector towards a chair, he sat down at a small table, folded his hands and asked, ‘Have you been able to learn more about that great gun?’
‘No. Sean Allen thinks that it will be very difficult, if not impossible, to satisfy the Emperor’s request.’
‘That is disappointing. His Majesty, as you must be aware, expects a prompt and successful response to all his demands. If you fail to supply him with a great gun, then perhaps you should make sure that Moulay receives a considerable sum for the ransom of the prisoners. It could save you and your friends from the unpleasant consequences which often result from Moulay’s displeasure.’
‘That’s why I came to talk to you again.’ Hector’s careful tone put Maimaran on his guard. He waited for Hector to continue. ‘It’s about the prisoners themselves. Do you know very much about them?’
‘Only what my assistant reported. He interviewed them this morning. He tells me that they are of the middle or lower rank, and none of them are likely to have rich families who would pay large sums for their release. So we will have to apply to their master, the Galley Corps of France, for their redemption. My assessment is that the French will offer a prisoner exchange – captive Muslim oarsmen for the Frenchmen – rather than any cash. Unfortunately, in the past the French have bartered one Muslim oarsman for every four of their nationals in these circumstances. They say that our rowers are three or four times more durable than their own nationals.’
Hector took a deep breath before stating, ‘One of the prisoners is a fraud. I believe that Moulay Ismail can obtain a very great ransom for him.’
Maimaran felt a sense of disappointment. He had been curious about the Irishman’s suppressed excitement. Now he feared he was about to hear an all too familiar story. Maimaran had been arranging prisoner ransoms for many years and was thoroughly experienced in the twists and turns of the process. Of course the captives lied. They had good reason to fake their identities and pretend that they were not who they seemed to be. Those who came from poor backgrounds tried to get better treatment from their captors by claiming they had wealthy families who could pay for their release. Others who came from rich families pleaded poverty so that their ransoms would be set cheaply. Very occasionally a master even changed places with a loyal servant. The master was then allowed to return home in the role of a negotiator to arrange a ransom for his ‘master’. But on getting to his own land, he revealed the deception knowing that the captors would release the servant as being of little value. But these ruses were so well known to men like Maimaran that they seldom worked any longer.
Hector sensed the Jew’s scepticism. ‘Please hear me out. If the Emperor discovers that a captive of such high value has slipped through his fingers, both of us will suffer.’
Maimaran bridled at the warning. Such implied threats often came from those who sought to profit from his disadvantaged status as a Jew.
‘What do you think is the real value of our French prisoners?’ he enquired, smoothing his black robe, then placing both hands palm down on the table in front of him.
Hector chose his words carefully. ‘Have you heard of a man known as “The Lion of La Religion”?’
‘Naturally. His reputation has reached us though he operates, if I recall, in the farther end of the Mediterranean.’
‘What do you know of him?’
‘That he is a Knight of Malta and a most virulent and implacable enemy of Islam. He is perhaps the most notorious of all the knights of the Order of St John. He has become a figure of hatred for the followers of Muhammad. They both fear and loathe him.’
‘I believe he is now here in Meknes and held captive among the French prisoners from the galley.’ Hector made the statement with as much certainty as he could muster.
‘That, if I may say so, is hardly likely,’ Maimaran replied. There was an edge of sarcasm in his voice. He was losing patience with his visitor. ‘If the Order of St John knew that a leading member of their order was in the Emperor’s custody, the grand council would already have opened negotiations with His Majesty for the knight’s redemption.’
‘That would be true if the Lion of La Religion were a knight of the Order of St John. But he is not. He belongs to the Order of St Stephen. The two orders are easily confused. They share the same symbol, the forked cross. I gather that the Order of St Stephen has almost abandoned the crusading zeal.’
‘And now you tell me that this knight was aboard the French galley? That seems even more difficult to believe.’ Maimaran remained incredulous.
‘My informant is someone who knows the knight well, and has served under him.’
‘And why has this informant not come forward before?’
‘Until yesterday he was unaware that the Chevalier, as he is known, was among the prisoners.’
‘And is he so sure that he is the right man that he can persuade others to believe him?’ When Hector hesitated in his reply, Maimaran sensed that he had touched on a weakness in the young man’s argument so he pressed his point. ‘Your witness would have to give clear evidence about this so-called Chevalier’s identity.’
Hector looked directly at Maimaran. ‘That would be difficult,’ he admitted. ‘My witness is a mute. He lacks a tongue.’
Despite his usual self-restraint, Maimaran gave a derisive sniff. ‘So your chief witness is dumb! How can you expect anyone to believe such a wild fiction.’
‘There is evidence which supports his claim,’ said Hector. He had expected that it would be difficult to convince Maimaran, and he knew his only hope of persuading him was to engage his curiosity. ‘When your assistant visited the prisoners this morning, was he able to learn the name of the Frenchmen’s galley?’
‘Of course. Without knowing the vessel’s identity, we c
ould not begin to open negotiations with the French.’
‘And that name?’
Maimaran failed to see what was the point of Hector’s question. ‘Surely you know yourself,’ he said irritably. ‘Were you not an oarsman on her crew?’
‘Yes I was,’ answered Hector. ‘But it is important that these details come from an independent source.’
Maimaran sighed. ‘The galley was named St Gerassimus. I thought it an unusual name when my assistant told me. But then I know little of these maritime traditions, except that the Christians often give saint’s names to their ships, believing them to bring divine protection.’
‘Are you familiar with the story of St Gerassimus?’
‘I have not the least idea of who he was or what he did.’
‘Then perhaps you will have heard of the story of Androcles and the Lion.’
‘The fables of Aesop are known to me.’
‘The tale of St Gerassimus is very similar. He was a Christian monk living in the desert. One day he removed a thorn from the paw of a lion, and thereafter the lion came to live with the saint, and protected him from his adversaries. Whenever anyone threatened St Gerassimus, his lion attacked his aggressors. You might say that the lion with the wounded paw became the saint’s protector.’
‘And now you are telling me that the Lion of La Religion is another St Gerassimus?’
‘No. St Gerassimus represents the Faith, and the Chevalier sees himself as the Lion fighting to protect it.’
‘And how would he have arrived at that strange vision of himself?’
‘The Chevalier carries injuries on both feet. The injuries, now healed, were inflicted on him by the Muslims. According to my informant, the Chevalier was captured by Muslims early during his career. He was already known as a cruel and ruthless enemy of Islam, so they tortured him before releasing him in a prisoner exchange. Before letting him go, his captors branded the sign of the cross on the sole of each foot. It was their form of revenge for the Chevalier’s fanaticism. They humiliated him by making sure that for the rest of his life, with each step that he took, he would tread on the symbol of his faith.’
Maimaran’s mouth twisted in a grimace of distaste. ‘And you learned all this from your mute informant? He seems remarkably well informed.’
‘He was there when the knight was tortured. He saw it for himself.’
‘And why did he not suffer the same fate?’
‘The Muslims took pity on him because already his tongue had been torn out.’
‘And why was that?’
‘He tried to explain to me but it was difficult to follow the details. But I did learn that it was the Chevalier who had ordered his mutilation.’
There was a long silence while Maimaran considered Hector’s tale. The young man’s claim seemed altogether too fanciful. ‘Can anyone else testify to the supposed identity of this prisoner?’
Hector shook his head. ‘I pulled an oar on the galley St Gerassimus but I never saw the Chevalier close enough to identify him now. As commander he joined the vessel shortly before we left harbour, and throughout the short voyage he stayed in his cabin or on the stern deck with the other officers. All but a handful of the other oarsmen are dead. They drowned, chained to their benches when the galley sank. Only the men on my oar bench got ashore, and one of those, a big Turk, never made it.’
‘What about the other French prisoners, would they testify?’
‘From what I have seen they are highly disciplined and loyal to the Chevalier. They would lie to protect him.’
‘Is there anything else which makes you think this mute is telling the truth?’
Hector shook his head. ‘The only other thing I can think of is the banner flown on our galley. It was the private flag of her commander. It showed the Five Wounds of Christ. Maybe that, too, referred to the injuries that the Chevalier had suffered at the hands of his enemies.’
Maimaran half-closed his eyes, and for a moment Hector thought that the elderly Jew was about to fall asleep. But the ransom broker was pondering his best course of action. If he went to Moulay with a tale that proved to be false, the Emperor was sure to fall into one of his murderous rages. Yet the young man seemed to be speaking in earnest, and there might yet be some slight substance to his extraordinary claim about the identity of one of the French prisoners. Maimaran opened his eyes and looked down at his hands. ‘So what do you suggest?’
‘We set a trap to unmask the Chevalier. The leader of the Frenchmen, a man named Piecourt, has twice asked for word of their capture to be sent to Jewish ransom brokers in Algiers. He tried to get a friend of mine to send this message soon after the Frenchmen were taken by the amazigh, and then yesterday Piecourt made exactly the same request to me. He mentioned the name Iphrahim Cohen. It seems that Cohen in Algiers would know who the prisoners are, and would be prepared to obtain their release.’
‘And how do you set this trap?’
‘The Frenchmen receive a note from Iphrahim Cohen, a note apparently smuggled in from Algiers. In the note Cohen writes that he has heard about the Chevalier’s capture and has made arrangements for the Chevalier to regain his freedom before his identity is known. The note will contain details of an escape plan, the time and place.’
‘And why would the Chevalier – if he is indeed in disguise among the prisoners – trust the note and not suspect a forgery?’
‘Because the note will contain certain details known only to the Chevalier and the Cohens. I can supply those details.’
Maimaran reached up to readjust his black cap more comfortably before commenting quietly, ‘For someone who has never met the Chevalier face to face, you seem very sure of what is in his mind.’
‘If the trap fails, I will accept full responsibility for whatever goes wrong. There will be no mention of the Cohens or a forged letter. I will confess that I was paid by the Frenchmen to arrange their escape. But if the plan works, the Chevalier will have confirmed his identity.’
‘I take it that you are proposing that I connive at the flight of one of his majesty’s prisoners by helping forge this letter and then delivering it as if it came through the Jewish community?’
‘Yes. It is the only way. Everything must be done properly. The French must not suspect anything, until they fall into the trap.’
Maimaran weighed up the young man’s suggestion, then enquired, ‘You realise, don’t you, that even if your plan succeeds, you are asking me to compromise my relationship with my fellow Jews in Algiers? If word of this scheme gets out, the Cohens will regard me as someone who forges their correspondence for my own purposes.’
Hector’s answer was sure and steady. ‘The Emperor promised me that he would arrange the release of a member of my family if I served him well. If I deliver into his hands the Lion of La Religion, I will have sacrificed a Christian who is a hero to many of his own people. I will be doing this for the sake of my captured sister.’
Maimaran already knew of Hector’s audacious request to Moulay Ismail for help in finding his captive sister. The young man’s reckless bravado had been court gossip for several weeks. There was something about the strength and sincerity of Hector’s resolve which made the old man say, ‘Very well. I will prepare that forged letter if you supply the necessary details that make it seem authentic, and I will make sure that it reaches this man Piecourt. But if your scheme goes wrong, I will deny all knowledge of it . . .’
‘I cannot thank you enough,’ Hector began, but Maimaran held up a hand to stop him. ‘Naturally I also expect some recompense for my cooperation. If the Chevalier is not a myth but a real person and is taken into custody, then I want you to give up any interest you may have in the negotiations for his full ransom which, as you say, should be very, very substantial. I alone will conduct those negotiations, and take the appropriate commission.’
‘You have my word on it,’ Hector assured him. ‘All I want is to track down my sister and obtain her release.’
AT MIDNIGHT imme
diately before the next new moon Hector found himself crouching with Dan at the foot of the rampart around the palace compound. He was breathing through his mouth and with shallow breaths. The ditch which ran along the outer face of the wall was used as a rubbish dump and the stench was appalling. The rotting carcasses of dead animals lay half-buried among pieces of broken pottery, discarded rags and all manner of unidentified nastiness. To make matters worse, the ditch was also a lavatory for the slave workers who by day had been repairing the wall above him. Hector feared that he had just rested his bare hand on a soft smear of recent human excrement. The advantage, he reminded himself, was that the ditch was so foul that it was avoided by the guards who occasionally patrolled the perimeter of the palace. Forty yards to his left Karp and Bourdon were also hidden. Diaz and his Spanish cavalry friend Roberto lay in wait in the opposite direction.
‘We don’t know exactly where Piecourt and the others will attempt to cross, so we need to cover as broad a section of the wall as possible,’ he had told his companions that morning. ‘I expect they will use the ladders which I saw in their cell to scale the inner face of the wall. Once on top of the wall, they will be able to dangle a rope on the far side and descend. The most likely place is where they themselves have been working during the day on their slave shift. They were repairing a section where the baked earth facing is crumbled away, and here the damaged wall offers a series of footholds. Once they are safely down, they only have to get across the ditch at the foot of the wall and then make their way to one of the villages in the valley. They will be expecting to meet a guide who will take them across country to the coast where a ship will be waiting to pick them up.’
