by Tim Severin
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, young man,’ said Maimaran, looking up from the page, ‘but this entry is nothing to do with guns or smuggling. It relates to a horse, and if you want to find out more about it you need to go to the royal stables.’
NINETEEN
‘A HORSE!’ Diaz wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he set down his drink. Hector had waited for the Spanish cavalryman’s next visit to Sean Allen’s office to ask his help in solving the mystery of the entry for Tison in Maimaran’s account books. ‘I wonder what the old Jew was referring to. I can’t think what he meant.’
‘You’ve never heard of Tison or Tisonne yourself?’ Hector enquired.
‘Yes, of course. Every Spaniard has,’ Diaz replied cheerfully and, reaching down, picked up his sword and slapped it on the table. ‘This is a tison, though in Castile we pronounce it tizon. It’s a word for a sword, and celebrates one of the most famous weapons in our history. Our greatest hero, El Cid, possessed two swords; one was called Tizon, the other Colada. Every schoolboy is made to learn the poem of El Cid by heart. Even now I can still remember the line,’ and he flung out an arm dramatically as he recited. ‘Well worth a thousand golden marks was the great sword Tizon.’
‘What did El Cid do with his sword?’
Diaz looked at Hector in astonishment. ‘You don’t know the story of El Cid?’
‘No.’
‘Six hundred years ago he helped drive back the Moors and used Tizon and Colada to do the job. According to legend, each sword was half as long again as the span of a man’s arms, and its blade so broad and heavy that only El Cid could wield it in battle.’
‘Then it seems strange to find a “tizon” in the stables of a devout Muslim prince. You would have thought it more likely that the great sword was kept here in the armoury or on display somewhere in Moulay’s palace. Only yesterday Maimaran showed me various trophies that Moulay has put on show to celebrate his victories over the Christians.’
Diaz grimaced. ‘Probably looted them from Spanish towns he captured in the north. Still, the only way to solve the puzzle is by going to the stables themselves. If Sean can spare you, we can set out right now. Just as soon as I finish this drink.’
DOZENS OF GROOMS and ostlers were busy bedding down the horses for the night when Diaz and Hector arrived at the stables. The air was heavy with pungent stable smells, squads of slaves were spreading fresh straw and carrying buckets of water to replenish drinking troughs, and Hector could hear the stamping of hooves and the snuffling of the animals as they waited hopefully for an evening feed. Diaz led him straight to meet the stable master, a small wizened Moor who must have been at least seventy years old and walked with a heavy limp which was the result, according to Diaz, of a riding accident. ‘Haddu is from one of the desert tribes who are great horse handlers and breeders. He has been here since the first day Moulay began building his stables. Recently Moulay wanted to make him a kaid, a nobleman, as a reward for his services. But Haddu refused. He told the Emperor that he didn’t want to be a kaid. Moulay was about to get very angry at being snubbed – you could see his eyes going red – but then Haddu added that he preferred horses to men and, as you know, Moulay likes his cats better than his servants, so he merely laughed and turned away.’
Unfortunately for Hector and Diaz, the stable master found it difficult to understand exactly what his visitors wanted. Hector and Diaz took it in turns to try to explain, but they had no success. Haddu looked from one to the other, increasingly puzzled. ‘Tison? Tizon? Tisonne?’ Hector repeated, trying every pronunciation he could think of. ‘The Emperor’s treasurer told me that he found the word Tison written in his ledgers, and it was something to do with a horse.’
‘I know nothing about any Tison,’ said the stable master, ‘but everything to do with the royal horses will be found in the section of the stables reserved for the Emperor’s animals. If we look there, perhaps you will discover your answer.’
The three men walked across to the imperial stable block that Hector remembered from his previous visit. There Haddu led them between the long lines of open stalls. The animals peered at them curiously, their ears pricked forward, heads turning to follow the progress of their visitors. Haddu stopped often to stroke a nose or scratch between a horse’s ears. He knew the name and breeding of every animal, and all the while he delivered a running commentary about the creature’s history and character. This horse came from the amazigh, the next was a present from the Caliph in Egypt, another was very elderly and stiff in the joints now but had been to Mecca and was sacred. Eventually they came to the last section of the stalls which, Haddu explained, was where the Emperor’s own riding animals were stabled. These horses were kept exercised and fit, ready for Moulay to ride in procession and state occasions. Hector and Diaz looked at each one and complimented the stable master on the good condition of the animals. It was when they had reached the very last animal in the line that Diaz stopped dead, and then slapped his forehead and gave a cry of triumph. ‘What an idiot I am,’ he exclaimed. ‘This is what Maimaran must have meant.’ Turning to the stable master, he asked, ‘How long have you had this horse here?’
‘Some two years. It is a most unusual animal, one of the Emperor’s particular favourites. He would have had to pay a great deal of money for it because such horses occur very infrequently. This one has proved not only beautiful but easy to train. It is truly a gem.’
Diaz looked across at Hector. ‘All that talk of El Cid’s great sword distracted me. The clerk who wrote up that ledger Maimaran showed you didn’t know very much about horses. He put down “tison” when, more correctly, he should have written “tiznado”. The two words are both to do with the ashes or embers in a fire. Do you remember that evening when we watched the fantasia? Moulay himself was riding the three lead horses in the main squadron. He put on a great display, and I remember one of my colleagues, another cavalryman, spoke admiringly of the tiznado. I didn’t know what he was talking about, and he explained that it was a word used in the Spanish colonies to describe a horse of a particular colour. This is just such a horse, a rarity, come and see for yourself.’
Hector went up to the stall. He found himself face to face with a handsome stallion who looked back at him, head held high, an intelligent gleam in its eye. The creature was strongly built with a powerful chest and a short back, clean legs and neat small hooves. Every line of its body told of speed and stamina. But what was truly eye-catching was the creature’s coat. It had been brushed until it shone. The background colour was a pale grey, and scattered over it were dozens and dozens of small black spots. It was the horse that Moulay Ismail had been riding at the fantasia.
‘I COULD HAVE saved you the trip,’ commented Bourdon when they got back to Sean Allen’s office in the Armoury and reported on their visit to the stables. ‘A spotted horse is called a tisonne in French. I know that because I once worked at an inn on the outskirts of Paris. I was only a youngster and the lowest of the low, so I was given the job of cleaning out the grates and fireplaces. Sometimes I had to climb halfway up the chimneys to get them swept. One of the local aristocrats, a vicomte, had a dog of that same speckled colour which had been trained to run along beside his carriage when he went driving out from the chateau. It was just showing off because the dog was a real eye-catcher with its black and white coat. Sometimes the vicomte stopped at the inn to take refreshment, and I remember one of the other inn servants took a great liking to the dog. He would pet the animal and feed it titbits. He had his own name for it. He called it Tisonne, and said his master really should have a tisonne horse to match. For a joke he sometimes even called me a tisonne saying that I had the white and pasty skin of a city dweller and was covered with specks of smut and soot from the fire.’
At that moment the door to the gun founder’s office swung open and Diaz’s friend Roberto burst into the room. There was a triumphant expression on his face. ‘They got him!’ he exulted. ‘They got that apelike bruiser wh
o escaped us. I just heard.’
‘Yakup, the rowing master, may he rot in hell,’ said Bourdon after Hector translated the Spaniard’s announcement. ‘Let’s have a celebration. But speak slowly so that Hector can tell me the details as you go along.’
Roberto sat down on the bench and launched into his tale with relish. ‘Apparently he managed to hide himself away in the countryside until by chance he was glimpsed by some locals when he came into a village to steal food. He beat up one of the villagers very badly, almost killed him. But he got himself lost and started wandering in circles. As luck would have it, he blundered into the path of Moulay Ismail’s cavalcade as it was returning to the city. The Black Guards managed to overpower him and bring him before Moulay. It seems that the Emperor was in a foul mood. When the prisoner was brought before him, he flew into an even more vile temper. Moulay was so enraged by the sign of the cross on the rowing master’s forehead that he ordered the Black Guard to toss the rowing master into the bottom of a nearby ravine, and if he tried to scramble out, they were to push him back with their spears. Moulay then turned to his son, that brat Ahmad who is called “the golden one”, and told him that he needed to improve his shooting skills and that it was time he tried out his new muskets.’
‘I know all about those,’ interjected the gun founder. ‘I adapted a pair of guns specially for the lad. He’s only about ten years old though tall and lanky for his age. Dan here trimmed down the stocks to size, and fitted the latest locks.’
‘Dan did a good job because the guns never misfired. Young Ahmad stood on the edge of the ravine and took one pot shot after another at the rowing master as he scrambled among the rocks and bushes trying to dodge. You could hear the bullets skipping off the rocks. Moulay himself stood watching, shouting advice and encouragement. When one of the Black Guards whose job was to reload the muskets was too slow, Moulay whipped out his sword and chopped off the man’s fingers. Eventually young Ahmad succeeded in knocking over the rowing master with a lucky shot, but his target managed to get back on his feet. It took another three musket balls to bring him down for good. Moulay then gave orders that the corpse was to be flayed, and the skin nailed up on the city gates to discourage other runaways.’
‘A fitting end for the bastard,’ observed Bourdon. ‘Let’s drink to the eternal damnation of all rowing masters. When they arrive in Hell, may they be chained to red-hot oar handles, lashed with whips made from bulls’ pizzles pickled in brine, and suffer from swollen piles whenever they fall back on the rowing bench.’
Hector noticed that Karp had been listening, his eyes flicking from one speaker to the next. With Piecourt and the rowing master both dead, the Chevalier seemed to have got off lightly, and Hector recalled the Chabrillan’s sour remark that hanging would have been too gentle a death for the Bulgar. ‘Karp, there are some questions I have to ask the Chevalier,’ he said. ‘I’m going to try to get permission to visit him in his cell. Do you want to come along?’
Karp gave a gagging sound and shook his head vehemently. Hector thought it strange that he looked not angry, but ashamed.
CHEVALIER ADRIEN CHABRILLAN’S prison was close to the imperial menagerie. Hector could hear the coughing roars of the lions and a strange high-pitched whooping which he took to be the call of some exotic bird as he approached. The low featureless building looked from the outside like a servants’ dormitory, and the sprawling imperial compound was such a maze of pavilions, mosques, guardhouses, stores, walkways and courtyards that, without the help of a guide provided by Joseph Maimaran, Hector would never have arrived at the Chevalier’s cell on the ground floor. Only when he went inside and was brought to a heavy wooden door guarded by a suspicious goaler did Hector appreciate that Chevalier Chabrillan was, in effect, hidden away from the rest of the world.
The guard unlocked the door with a heavy iron key, and stood back to allow Hector to enter the cell alone. The room was simply furnished with a mattress on a low bed frame, a wooden table and two chairs, and a chamber pot. A blanket lay neatly folded on the mattress, and the only light entered through a small, barred window high up in the wall opposite the door. Hector noted that the wall itself was two feet thick. The room reminded him of a monk’s cell, an impression strengthened by the fact that its lone occupant was kneeling in prayer, facing a simple wooden cross nailed to the wall.
The turnkey closed the door behind Hector, but the kneeling figure did not stir. The man was dressed in a loose cotton gown, and once again Hector found himself staring in fascination at the cross-shaped scars on the soles of his naked feet. Finally, after several minutes, the prisoner rose and turned to face his visitor. For the first time Hector saw the Chevalier close up in daylight and he was taken aback by the contemptuous stare. ‘I gave orders that I would receive visitors only if they were here to discuss the conditions of my incarceration,’ said Chabrillan. ‘If I am not mistaken, you are an associate of that tongueless heretic. You will be disappointed if you came here to gloat. I have nothing to discuss with you.’
‘I want only a few moments of your time,’ said Hector civilly, marvelling at the unshakeable self-confidence of the Chevalier. He did not harbour any hatred for the man, now that he knew Chabrillan was very likely to be held prisoner for many years. ‘I did not come to take pleasure from seeing your captivity. I only hope to understand why this has come about.’
‘I would have thought that was obvious,’ Chabrillan snapped. ‘The schismatic wanted revenge. But it will make no difference in the eyes of God. I may remain here for many years, but he will spend all eternity in the fires of Hell.’
‘He seemed so harmless until—’ Hector began, but he was cut off in mid sentence by a snort of disdain.
‘Harmless! That viper! He is no more harmless than the Satan whose path he follows, and whose poison he was injecting into others until I had his tongue removed.’
‘But Karp could never have been a threat to someone as powerful and well connected as yourself.’
Chabrillan regarded Hector scornfully. ‘What do you know about these things?’ Belatedly Hector realised that he had come with the intention of questioning Chabrillan, but was already deferring to the aristocrat’s arrogance. He resolved to stand his ground.
‘Karp told me that you had his tongue torn out when you were both in Kandia.’
‘Told? How could he have told you anything? He lacks the means to do so.’ This time there was a note of cruelty in Chabrillan’s tone.
‘He did so by dumb show. He also drew a map and tried to make me understand that you have the sign of the cross marked on the soles of your feet. At the time it made no sense.’
‘And did he also tell you that he is a traitor to Christendom, a festering contagion eating away at the True Faith?’
Abruptly Chabrillan turned away. For several moments there was silence as if he was considering whether to put an end to the interview. Then he swung round to face his visitor, and in a flinty voice said, ‘Kandia was where we took our stand against the Turk. There were thousands of us who believed that it was our sacred duty to hold the bastion. The rest of the island had already fallen, but the city itself held out month after month, year after year. Venice sent us supplies and reinforcements, and her fleet kept the sea-lanes open. I and other knights came with our galleys to try to stiffen the resistance shortly before the end. Doubtless that was when Karp wormed his way in. He was among the volunteers who arrived from all over Europe to assist us.’
‘Karp is from the Bulgar lands ruled by the Turks. He would have risked his life to get to Kandia,’ agreed Hector. He had intended to encourage the flow of the Chevalier’s narrative but his remark only brought an angry retort.
‘And that should have made me beware! He is no more a Christian than that blackamoor who guards my cell door. His homeland is a wellspring of heresy. From there the pestilence oozes and threatens to infect all.’
‘I don’t follow your meaning,’ Hector muttered.
Chabrillan’s lip cu
rled. ‘How would you understand? Am I right in guessing that you have taken the turban and your manhood has been trimmed?’
‘I did convert when I was in the bagnio of Algiers,’ Hector acknowledged, ‘but only in the hope that it would ease my captivity. My faith has lapsed since then, both in the teachings of Muhammad and in the religion I was taught as a child by monks. They were good men who knew their gospel.’
‘What would those monks say if they knew you had lifted a forefinger and pronounced that there is no God but Allah, and that Muhammad is his prophet,’ Chabrillan sneered. ‘In that benighted corner perhaps your monks have not yet heard the serpent’s hiss, those who preach that Satan is the creator and ruler of the visible world. They deny the Holy Cross and refuse to worship the Virgin Mary and the Saints. That is what Karp and his foul companions do. They claim that the Romish Church is not the Church of Jesus Christ but a Harlot, while only they themselves hold to the truth.’
‘But if men like Karp came to fight at Kandia alongside you, what mattered was their hatred of the Turk.’
‘Karp did not come to Kandia to fight. He came to convert. He persuaded others in our garrison that atonement and redemption were meaningless, that the sacrament of unction was to be spurned because it is reserved for the rich, that every good layman is himself a priest. His blasphemy was endless.’
Hector felt he was getting nowhere. The Chevalier was clearly a fanatic, but that did not seem sufficient reason for him to have mutilated Karp, a fellow Christian, in the midst of a gruelling and prolonged siege. ‘What reason did you give when you ordered Karp’s tongue to be removed?’ he asked.
‘I needed no authority. Karp had attached himself to my troops in the guise of a cook, and he was under my command. It was enough that he was preaching disobedience, not only to Mother Church but to military authority and to natural order. He would have my men lay down their arms and renounce all violence. They were to call themselves “dear to God”, and trust to prayer. That was sedition. So I stopped his mouth. I made an example of him so that others should take warning.’
