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  ‘But none of us – Dan, Bourdon, Karp nor I – know much about the mortar,’ Hector objected. ‘All we did was prepare the bombs, load them, and clean the weapon.’

  ‘But you must have noted the shape and size of the gun, the thickness of its barrel, the design of its chamber, the way the bombs were prepared. Put all those details together and there should be enough information for Moulay’s master gun founder to make a copy. And if he is able to make a replica, we will all be richly rewarded.’

  Despite Diaz’s confidence, Hector was full of misgivings as the Spaniard led them through the wolf’s-head gate. The weather had improved, and it was a warm, bright morning. They walked along a series of avenues in the palace grounds. Now and then Diaz had to stop to get his bearings, apologising that so much building work had been done since his last audience with Moulay five months earlier that he was in danger of losing his way. ‘The messenger said that we were to meet the Emperor by the place where he keeps his cats,’ he explained.

  ‘You mean at the lion pit? That doesn’t sound very encouraging,’ commented Bourdon dryly.

  ‘No, no, his cats. The Emperor is very fond of cats. There are more than forty of them, all sorts of colours and types, from tabbies to pure white. The Emperor collects cats. He is sent the most remarkable ones from all over his kingdom, and also from foreign countries. He has cats with eyes of different colours, long-furred cats, cats that love to swim, cats with no tails. He keeps them in a special enclosure and they are trained to come to him when he calls.’

  They passed through a bewildering array of pavilions, arcades and courtyards, many of them embellished with marble fountains and reflecting pools. They skirted around a sunken garden planted with cypress trees and surrounded by balustrades of jasper, and then made a detour around a handsome colonnaded building which Diaz warned was the residence of two of the Emperor’s principal wives. Everywhere was a profusion of inlay work, cut-stone tracery and delicate stucco, and when Diaz risked taking a short cut down a long corridor leading through a reception hall, Hector marvelled at the painted plaster ceiling overhead and the thousands of small tiles, red and green and white, which had been laid to make a chequerwork pavement. Very occasionally he glimpsed a servant who quickly darted away out of sight, so this entire, remarkable assemblage of buildings and open spaces gave the impression of being deserted.

  Finally they came upon a small group of courtiers standing beside yet another sunken garden. It was crossed by a causeway covered with trellised vines so that it formed a long leafy tunnel. Judging by the nervous expressions on the faces of the courtiers, who were all dressed in rich Moorish costume, they too were awaiting the arrival of the Emperor. Hector glanced into the netted enclosure behind them, and saw it was home to a variety of cats who were sunning themselves, sleeping or prowling the perimeter of their cage.

  The largest and most magnificent of the cats, a spotted creature the size of a small leopard, alerted them to the approach of the Emperor. Long before the humans could detect anything unusual, the animal suddenly sat up and gazed with its huge, yellow eyes down the leafy tunnel. Then the big cat yawned luxuriously, curving its pink tongue, rose to its feet and padded over towards the edge of the enclosure where it sat down again and gazed fixedly towards the causeway. The cluster of courtiers stirred with apprehension, adjusting their robes, shifting from one foot to another, making small coughing sounds as they cleared their throats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘In Algiers, Your Majesty.’

  ‘And what country are you from?’

  ‘From a country called Ireland, Your Majesty.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘What is it!’ he enquired sharply.

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

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

  An amused smile twisted the sensuous mouth.

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

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

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

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘I THOUGHT YOU WERE going to get your neck broken,’ grumbled Diaz as he hurried Hector and the others away. ‘Moulay is not usually so forbearing. He’s like those cats of his. You never know what he is thinking and which way he will jump. He’ll toy with a victim for hours before pouncing. Then it’s all over in a moment.’

  They were returning through the palace compound by a route that took them towards an area of large, square buildings with the appearance of storehouses and depositories. ‘I think you were saved by the fact that you come from Ireland. I dare say Moulay’s met very few people from that country, and when you appeared in front of him to answer about this miraculous new gun and said you were Irish, he must have thought that fate had taken a hand. His master gun founder is an Irishman. He’s been casting cannon or repairing Moulay’s artillery for years, and he’s very popular with those of us who like to celebrate now and then, because he’s allowed to keep large stocks of alcohol. He claims it’s an essential ingredient for his craft. Ah! There he is, the small man in the leather apron just coming out of the foundry.’

  Hector saw a stooped, white-haired figure emerge from the nearest of the buildings, wipe his face with a cloth, then stand in the open, fanning himself. His clothes were soaked with sweat.

  ‘Greetings Sean,’ called Diaz. ‘I’ve got some helpers for you. By order of the Emperor himself.’

  The gun founder looked at them placidly. Hector judged him to be about sixty years old. Beneath his shock of white hair he had clear grey eyes in a face permanently discoloured with ingrained grime, and his hands and bare forearms were marked with dozens of small burns and scars. The gun founder coughed to clear his throat, spat carefully and wiped his face again before replying.

  ‘Help’s always welcome,’ he said, looking Hector and his companions over. Hector noted that his voice, like all his movements, was calm and unhurried. His Spanish was slow and deliberate. ‘What are they meant to do?’

  ‘Explain to you about some sort of new artillery the Emperor wants copied,’ said Diaz cheerfully. ‘This is Hector. He’s a countryman of yours.’

  ‘Is he indeed?’ responded the old man and, addressing Hector, said, ‘I’m Sean Allen from Meath though it’s a long time since I was there. And yourself?’

  ‘Hector Lynch from Cork County, and these are my friends: Dan is from the Caribees, Jacques Bourdon from Paris, and Karp is a Bulgar, though he’s a mute.’

  The gun founder shot Karp an amused glance and said, ‘He’s a silent bugger, so?’ No one understood the quip and he added, ‘Buggers or bugres, that’s what you call someone who’s awkward. It’s on account of so many Bulgars being troublemakers. Something to do with their religion. They are said to be extreme heretics. Not that I care.’

  He paused to wipe his brow again.

  ‘I saw enough bigotry back home when I was at the siege of Limerick with Cromwell’s son-in-law, Ireton. I minded and mended his cannon for him, and what he did to those who led the resistance sickened me and I left poor unhappy Ireland. Since then I’ve served the Sultan in Istanbul, the Bey of Tunis, and now the Emperor of Morocco. They all need guns and will employ those who have the knowledge to make them. Now tell me about this artillery I’m supposed to copy. What’s so special about it?’

  ‘I don’t know the technical details,’ Hector answered, ‘but it’s a short, fat gun which shot flaming bombs in the air and they fell into a town and exploded.’

  ‘Nothing new there,’ said the gun founder, now mopping the back of his neck with the cloth. ‘Mortars have been used for years. Ireton had four of them when we besieged Limerick, and a Hungarian built a truly enormous one for the Grand Turk when he besieged Constantinople and that was two centuries ago. I saw his great mortar on display in the city. It was so big that it shot stone cannonballs that weighed five hundred pounds. Mind you, it must have taken the stonemasons a month of Sundays to chip and shape each cannonball so it fitted right. Not exactly a rapid rate of fire.’

  ‘The gun we saw used ready-made hollow shells of metal fitted with different sorts of fuses. Some worked, others didn’t. The gun was mounted on a galley, and that’s why we are here. It shook the galley to pieces.’ Hector stopped talking, conscious that he had said something which had caught the gun founder’s attention.

  ‘A mortar carried on a ship. That’s different altogether,’ Allen said thoughtfully. ‘Some clown failed to compensate for the recoil. It would need a different sort of carriage from the usual one for land guns, something that would allow the downward thrust to be converted to a sideways motion. I heard that a Dutchman – Coehorn I think is his name – has come up with an improved mortar, perhaps that is what was being used on board that ship.’ He was half talking to himself, imagining the practical problems of his new commission from the Emperor, and Diaz had to interrupt him. ‘Sean, I’ve got to get back to my own billet. I’ll leave your new helpers with you. I presume you can find space for the extra members of your team.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said the gun
founder absent-mindedly, ‘I’ll see that they are looked after.’

  Allen turned towards the building behind him, and pulled open the door. His visitors quailed at the blast of heat though the gun founder seemed to be oblivious to the temperature as he led Hector and the others inside. ‘This is the foundry itself,’ he explained, as they stepped around a mass of glowing metal in a pit. ‘We had a pour a few hours ago and are waiting for the metal to cool down. It’s nothing special, just a small brass culverin. The Emperor likes to boast that he has a full-sized gun foundry, but in fact we haven’t the facilities to make anything much bigger than this. Most of our work is repairing damaged cannon or casting round shot and grape for his field artillery. A ten-pound ball is heavy enough to knock down the mud walls of the forts that the tribes build for themselves in the interior. But a true siege cannon, like the weapon you are talking about, is another matter altogether.’

  He had reached the far end of the foundry, and passing through a double door and then across the narrow lane he brought his visitors into an even larger building. It was an arms depot. Here were rack upon rack of sabres and muskets, trays of pistols, bundles of pikes and an array of blunderbusses. Clusters of bandoliers hung on pegs, and disposed here and there on the floor were heaps of body armour, corselets, greaves, and helmets of many different styles and in varying condition. ‘The Emperor hates to have any war material thrown away,’ confided the gun founder. ‘Half of this stuff is so antiquated as to be useless, like that arquebus over there. But when Moulay comes on an inspection he’ll suddenly ask to see some piece of equipment which he remembers from months earlier, and there’s all hell to pay if it can’t be produced immediately. You there!’ He called out to a lad who was replacing an old-fashioned Spanish helmet in a chest. ‘Don’t put it in like that. Wrap it first in paper so it keeps its gleam.’ Hector noted that the gun founder had spoken in English. ‘Does everyone in the foundry use English?’ he asked. ‘I should hope so,’ answered the Irishman. ‘I’ve got a score of youngsters working here for me, and every one of them is English. It’s another quirk of Moulay’s. Every time his people capture an English youngster, the lad is assigned to work with me in the Arsenal. My guess is that Moulay thinks the English make the best gun founders and gunsmiths.’