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 who 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.’