‘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 beginning 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.