Corsair

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 could 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 immediately 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.’

‘What makes you think that they will attempt their escape this evening?’ Diaz had asked.

‘Because there is no moon, and because tomorrow is the feast day of one of the local marabouts or holy men so the Muslim guards will be preparing their celebrations.’

‘What happens if a whole gang of prisoners swarms down the ropes? There are not enough of us to deal with all of them.’ It was Diaz’s cavalry friend Roberto who spoke. He was checking over the pair of pistols that Hector had provided, weapons Hector had borrowed from the Arsenal without consulting Sean Allen.

‘There should be only three men, perhaps four,’ Hector had reassured the Spaniard. ‘In the letter they have received, they have been told that the guide refuses to take more than three men at a time because a large group would be too noticeable as it made its way across country.’

‘Let’s hope the Frenchmen heed that advice,’ the Spaniard had grunted. ‘I don’t fancy facing a whole lot of them with just a pistol in my hand and no back-up.’

‘Try not to harm any of them,’ Hector had reminded him. ‘We want to take them alive.’

As the hours of darkness had dragged past, Hector was becoming aware of a flaw in his plan. He had failed to take into account the incessant howling and barking of the city’s population of dogs. As one pack of dogs fell silent, another group started up, filling the night with their clamour of useless noise and evoking a counter chorus which slowly faded away, only for some lone animal to howl plaintively and start the whole process over again. The racket made it impossible to hear the sounds of anyone who might be scrambling down the wall across the ditch from him, and the face of the wall was so obscured in the gloom that his eyes played tricks on him. Several times he had imagined a shadowy movement, only to be disappointed when, after a long interval, all remained dark and still.

Beside him Dan seemed impervious to the long wait. The Miskito was squatting on his heels, not moving. Hector, by contrast, was obliged to shift his legs from one position to another whenever he felt the first warning twinge of cramp. And as the wait grew longer, Hector grew more and more fretful. He had expected something to have happened by now. He wondered if Piecourt and the others had become suspicious of the note they had received, or if they had decided it would be better to wait for the Franciscans to arrange their ransom. He looked up at the stars, trying to calculate how long he and his companions had been lying in ambush. It was a clear night with only a few shreds of high thin clouds, and he could easily identify the constellations he had studied on the star globe in Turgut Reis’s library. It seemed so long ago that he and Dan had been held in the Algiers bagnio and discussed the possibility of their own escape. Now he was trying to prevent the escape of others. Everything seemed to have assumed a different shape. Back in Algiers he had told himself that he must survive the bagnio so that he would be free to track down his sister Elizabeth. Yet he had always known such an ambition was a fantasy. Now, however, he found that he was allowing himself to believe genuinely that he might locate her. He struggled to justify the reason for this new hope. Partly it was because he knew from Sean Allen that Hakim Reis’s ship might put into port one day, and he would have the chance to interview her captain. Yet there was something else which was making him more optimistic: he sensed that at last he was gaining control of his own fate, albeit slowly, and that he was no longer at the mercy of others.

A light touch on his hand interrupted his thoughts. It was Dan. The Miskito had not moved for so long that Hector had almost forgotten his presence. Now Dan was pointing upward. Hector looked towards the top of the rampart. For a second he glimpsed a shape, the outline of a man’s head, dark against the starry sky. The town dogs had renewed their howling, so he could hear nothing except their uproar. He kept absolutely still, gazing up towards the parapet. Time passed, and he wondered if he had been mistaken. Then Dan tapped him again on the hand twice, then once more. A moment later Hector could make out two heads against the sky and, almost immediately the head and shoulders of a third man who was leaning out, looking downwards cautiously. Hector felt for the loaded pistol that he had placed beside him, slid his fingers around the butt of the weapon, and waited.

There was a faint sound, so close now that he heard it over the distant crying of the dogs, a gentle slap. Hector guessed that it must be the sound of a rope’s end knocking against the wall as it dropped from above. He strained his eyes, trying to see the rope, but the outer face of the wall was in shadow from the starlight and he could see nothing. Looking upward he again detected movement, and this time he was certain. There was the dark outline of someone clambering out over the edge of the wall. The man, whoever it was, was starting his descent. Hector calculated that he would reach the ground about ten yards to the right of where he and Dan lay in wait. Still he did not move.

The figure passed into shadow and disappeared. Hector found that he was gripping the butt of the pistol so tightly that his fingers were numb. Gently he relaxed his grip. He no longer smelled the stench of the ditch. All his senses were concentrated on trying to gauge just how far down the rope the man had come, and to identify the spot where he would touch the ground. No more than half a minute later he heard a noise which he supposed was the sound of someone setting his feet carefully on the edge of the ditch. The base of the wall was so deep in shadow that Hector imagined, rather than saw, the dark shape of a man now standing and waiting there.

A scrabbling sound, and Hector realised that he had missed the start of the descent of a second man. He was already halfway down the rope and descending more swiftly than the first. The second man reached the ground even as Hector was coming to realise that he might have miscalculated badly, and had placed Diaz and his Spanish friend too far away to have noticed what was happening. He feared that they were too distant to help once the trap was sprung. Momentarily Hector dithered, his mind whirling. He did not know if he should act as soon as the next man reached the ground – he was now halfway down the wall – or wait to see if there were other escapees, more than the original three. He feared that if he delayed too long, those who were already on the ground would cross the ditch and escape into the darkness. And if they included the Chevalier, he might never be recaptured.

Hector came to a decision. He rose to his feet and called out, ‘Stand where you are or you will be shot.’ Hastily he climbed up the slope of the ditch, and ran to the point where he faced directly across to the three men. Dan was at his heels. The three fugitives remained in the deep black shadow at the foot of the wall and it was impossible to make them out distinctly. He hoped that there was enough starlight for them to see that he and Dan both held pistols.

There was silence from across the ditch.

‘Now come across towards me, one by one,’ Hector ordered.

The first shadow moved, stepped out into the starlight. Immediately Hector knew it was Yakup, the rowing master. The man’s squat shape was unmistakable as he made his way down into the ditch, slipping slightly, then squelched his way across and clambered up until he stood in front of the young Irishman. Yakup exuded such a sense of raw physical power that a prickle of fear ran up Hector’s spine, and he retreated a pace. ‘Come no closer! Step over there and lie face down on the ground,’ he ordered, motioning with his pistol. He heard movement over to his right, thankfully Diaz and the Spanish cavalryman were coming to his aid.

‘And the next,’ Hector called out. ‘Move slowly. No tricks.’

A second dark figure detached itself from the shadows and began to make its way across the ditch. When the man climbed up level with him, Hector saw what he had expected: it was the tall stranger, the man with the speckled cheek, whom he had twice seen in Piecourt’s company. ‘Stand still, just where you are,’ he commanded again. Then, speaking over his shoulder to Diaz who had joined them, he added, ‘Keep your eye on this one and don’t hesitate to shoot.’

He was certain that the third man in the shadow was Piecourt himself. There was a note of triumph in his voice as he called out, ‘Now, comite, it’s your turn,’ and he watched as the third of the escapees made his way across the ditch and stood obediently in front of his captors. Hector felt the tension ebbing. His ambush had succeeded just as he had planned.

Piecourt was peering into his face and speaking. ‘So my dogs have betrayed me,’ he said. He must have recognised Dan and Bourdon as well, for he murmured, ‘Bench three. I always suspected that you were trouble. What will you do with us now?’

‘Hand you over to the guards,’ said Hector.

‘And then?’

‘Tomorrow someone will decide your punishment for attempting to escape.’ The words were hardly out of his mouth when he was roughly brushed aside. Someone had run up behind him and shoved him out of the way. His foot slipped on the edge of the ditch and for a moment he was off balance, sliding sideways. He half-turned and saw Karp. The expression on Karp’s face in the half-light was frightening. His mouth was a dark hole from which emerged a yowling scream. For a ghastly moment Hector was reminded of a stray dog howling at the moon, though the sound that Karp made was more piteous. The Bulgar was moving with shocking speed. His hands reached out. A moment later he had seized the tall stranger by the throat. The force of the lunge knocked the man off his feet and he fell backward, Karp on top of him. In appalled astonishment Hector, Dan and the others stood gaping as the two men writhed on the ground while Karp tried to throttle his victim. Piecourt was the first to recover his senses. He lashed out at Hector, who was still off balance so that Hector fell back on one knee. Whirling round, Piecourt swung an arm at Dan standing guard with his pistol, and forced the Miskito to duck. Then Piecourt took to his heels, running directly away from the wall and heading towards the distant village. Dan straightened up, coolly raised his pistol and called out. ‘Stop or I shoot!’ When Piecourt failed to respond, Dan pulled the trigger. There was a bright flash, a spurt of red and yellow sparks, followed by the flat explosion of the shot. Thirty yards away the fleeing shadow tumbled forward.

Neither the pistol shot nor Bourdon’s whoop of delight had any effect on Karp. He had succeeded in pinning his victim on his back, and was kneeling on his victim’s chest with his hands still around the stranger’s throat. His frenzied yelling had given way to low, fierce growls as he tried to kill his opponent with his bare hands. ‘Karp! Karp! Leave him alone! Let him be!’ Hector bellowed in Karp’s ear. But the Bulgar was oblivious to Hector’s shouts. He bore down with his full weight and was shaking his victim’s head from side to side. Hector seized Karp by the shoulder and tried to restrain him. ‘No, Karp! No!’ he yelled. But it was useless. Karp was in a red mist of rage. In desperation Hector threw an arm round Karp and tried to drag him back, using all his strength. But Karp was berserk. ‘Help me, Dan. Help me get Karp under control,’ Hector gasped, and with Dan’s assistance he wrestled the Bulgar away from his opponent who now lay choking and groaning on the ground.

‘Control yourself Karp,’ Hector begged. The Bulgar was sobbing in distress. He was sucking in great gasps of air through his mangled mouth. Tears of rage were streaming down his cheeks, and he was still trembling. ‘Everything’s under control, Karp,’ Hector reassured him. ‘You will have your revenge.’ Karp gave a gurgling choking sound, and turned his face away. To Hector’s utter amazement, the Bulgar dropped to his knees and began to pray. He was weeping uncontrollably.

Hector helped the stranger up. The man was still in a state of shock, appalled by the naked ferocity of the assault. He was unsteady on his feet, coughing and wheezing as he massaged his bruised throat. ‘Remember what you did to Karp, Chevalier. You could not have expected less,’ Hector said. The stranger did not answer at once, but waited until he had regained his self-control. Then he raised his head and, looking straight at Hector, snapped, ‘I should have strung up the villain when I had the chance. But such a death was too gentle for him.’

Dimly Hector became aware of Diaz’s voice. The Spaniard was cursing steadily and fluently. ‘He got clean away, the bastard,’ Diaz was lamenting. He was rubbing his elbow. The rowing master was nowhere to be seen. ‘We thought the pair of us had him under control, but the man has the strength of a bull. He took advantage of the commotion and jumped up off the ground and knocked both pistols out of my hands. When I tried to grab him, he twisted out of my grip as if I was a child. Then he dealt Roberto such a clout on the head that he was dizzy for minutes. By the time I recovered my guns, the brute had bolted. It was too late to take a shot at him and, besides, you had your hands full over here with Karp and his friend. I thought it better to come and help you secure the one bird that we had in the hand. There was no need to worry about that fellow Dan picked off. From the way he fell, I’d say he won’t get up again.’

‘Let’s get away from here,’ said Hector, suddenly feeling very weary. ‘We’ve got the prisoner we were looking for, and the guard will arrive any minute. They must have heard Dan’s shot and all the commotion. We can leave them to find Piecourt whether he’s dead or only wounded. He never lifted a hand to help us, so now we’ll repay him the compliment. Tomorrow I’ll find out just what our captive is worth.’

‘TEN THOUSAND louis d’or, that’s the ransom that I will be demanding for the Chevalier. I congratulate you,’ said Maimaran. The Jew had sent word for Hector to meet him in the imperial treasury, and Hector was astounded by the contrast with the Jew’s humble home. Maimaran was waiting for him in a reception chamber whose barbaric opulence was hidden deep in the palace compound. Sunlight poured in through the fine fretwork of arched windows and threw patterns across a tessellated floor of white, blue and red. The walls were hung with arrays of sabres, shields and muskets inlaid with gold and mother of pearl. Several iron chests, bolted and padlocked, stood against one wall. ‘His true identity is Adrien Chabrillan, Knight Commander of the Order of St Stephen of Tuscany. He also holds various lesser titles of nobility and rank including the honorary rank of captain in the Galley Corps of France. As you rightly surmised, he is also known as the Lion of La Religion. The Emperor is away for a few days so I have not yet informed him of his captive’s identity, but I know that he will be very pleased. It will enhance his reputation as a champion of Islam as well as make a very significant contribution to his treasury.’ Maimaran nodded towards the iron-bound chests. ‘The Emperor always needs money. His expenses are voracious, and his revenues unpredictable. The ransom of Chevalier Chabrillan will ensure a steady stream of income for quite some time.’

‘I had no idea that the Chevalier could be worth so much.’

Maimaran gave a tight smile. ‘His Majesty leaves it to me to act as the unofficial comptroller of his finances, and to maintain a balance between income and expenditure. The sum of ten thousand louis d’or is so enormous that it will take several years to raise. Doubtless Chevalier Chabrillan has friends and family who will advance what they can, and their contributions can be added to the sale of the more valuable possessions that he either inherited or accumulated over years of cruising against the Muslims. But that preliminary effort will raise no more than a down payment and will have to be followed by annual payments – perhaps for as much as another ten years. His supporters and family might even have to borrow additional funds from financiers, such as the Cohens in Algiers.’ There was a hint of satisfaction to his voice as he added, ‘If the Cohens charge their usual ten per cent interest, it will lessen any resentment should they ever discover that their name was used to trap the Chevalier.’

‘And what will happen to him while all this ransom is being collected?’

‘As long as the payments keep arriving, he will be kept closely confined and well treated. No one wants to see him perish. But should the flow of payments cease or slow to a trickle, then his conditions of imprisonment will worsen, and he will be given the opportunity to inform his family of his suffering. That should help loosen the purse strings once again.’

‘And what about the other men who tried to escape with him? Do you know what happened to them?’

Maimaran glanced meaningfully at one of the muskets displayed on the wall. ‘Your companion, the one with the dark skin, is an excellent shot. The man he brought down with his pistol died this morning. The pistol ball broke his spine.’

‘And what about the other one? There was a third man who ran away. Has he been caught?’

‘Not yet, as far as I know. But he won’t get far. He is on his own and in a strange country. The commander of the palace guard has sent word to all the surrounding villages that a watch is to be kept for him. The commander wants him caught before the Emperor returns to Meknes, because it will look bad for him if a slave has been allowed to escape.’ Maimaran broke off for a moment as he reached out to readjust a pile of ledgers on an elegant table inlaid with mother of pearl. ‘But I did not ask you to come here to talk about the fate of the runaways. You told me earlier that you were trying to trace your sister who, you believe, might be captive in Morocco, and for this reason you wished to render a great service to the Emperor. Now that you have succeeded in the first part of that ambition, I was wondering what you planned to do next, and if there is any way in which I might help. You’ve made my task as comptroller of royal finances much easier, and I feel that I am in your debt.’

Hector looked around the strange disorder of valuables on display. There were enormous ostrich feather fans, heaps of costly rugs, beautifully worked saddles, an intricate-looking clock lying on its back on the floor, several looking glasses in gilded frames, a leopard skin. He guessed they were items of tribute rendered to the Emperor or seized by Moulay from his hapless subjects, and he remembered that Sean Allen had mentioned how Hakim Reis occasionally brought gunpowder as tribute to the Emperor.

‘Do you know a ship captain by the name of Hakim Reis?’ he asked.

‘Another seafarer with piratical habits,’ commented Maimaran softly. ‘You seem to have a broad knowledge of such people.’

‘I was wondering if you knew how I could contact him.’

To his disappointment, the comptroller replied, ‘I’ve never met him myself. He usually stays with his ship down on the coast, at Sallee, and is tactful enough to send his Majesty some little curiosity by way of a gift. You see that clock over there, not the one on the floor, but on that far table. That is one of his presents which he sent to Meknes. It was made in London, and taken out of an English merchant ship that Hakim and his fellow corsairs waylaid off the coast of Spain. Naturally I keep a record of all such gifts. His Majesty has a habit of suddenly enquiring what happened to particular items. He has a remarkable memory.’ ‘Sean Allen said the same about the weapons he has to preserve in the armoury, even if they are so old that they are useless. He told me that he gets them also from Hakim Reis who in turn is supplied by someone called Tisonne or Tison. Do those names mean anything to you?’

There was a pause, and Hector’s hopes rose very slightly as Maimaran said slowly, ‘A name like that is vaguely familiar. I seem to remember hearing it in relation to the emperor’s finances, but I cannot remember exactly where. However . . .’ Then he reached towards his pile of ledgers and selecting a volume began to turn the pages, before he continued, ‘This should tell me.’

Hector watched the old man fastidiously read down the columns until Maimaran gave a little satisfied grunt and said, ‘I thought so. Here it is. A substantial payment in the name of Tison. The money was paid two years ago.’

‘Was it for weapons? For gunpowder?’ Hector asked eagerly. ‘Sean Allen said that Hakim Reis obtained these materials from Tison or Tisonne. Does the ledger give any details who he is or where he might be found?’

‘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.’