CILIATI MANSUR came to fetch them soon after dawn. He had changed his immaculate white gown for a similar flowing garment all in black, and his plain turban had been replaced by a strange-looking black velvet cap in the shape of a pyramid.
‘My court dress,’ he explained. ‘As well as being His Majesty’s chamberlain, I also hold the rank of jogugu, his prime minister.’ He adopted a more formal tone. ‘His Majesty commands me to bring before him all those of you who speak Spanish.’ Seeing Hector’s puzzled look, he added in a more normal voice, ‘The Sultan is proud that he knows a few words of Spanish, and likes to demonstrate that knowledge to his courtiers.’
Hector looked around his friends. ‘Dan, you should join me, and Jacques too. But Jezreel can stay behind with Stolck. What about the crew of the Westflinge?’
The chamberlain shook his head. ‘The captain can come. The Sultan may wish to question him. But it is better that the others stay. Often His Majesty is angered by the sight of Hollanders. They remind him that their trading company favours Ternate and Tidore, and this harms his own kingdom. It will be better for everyone if His Majesty remains in a favourable mood.’
‘What about my betrothed, Maria? When will I be able to see her?’ Hector enquired firmly.
Mansur made a soothing gesture. ‘All in good time,’ he answered. ‘She is well looked after.’
Hector tried not to let his impatience show as the little group left the warehouse. The air was pleasantly cool and fresh as they made their way through a fishermen’s market, which had already been set up on the waterfront so that the night’s catch could be sold before the heat of the day. The displays of small fish on racks of trays were dazzling – spots and stripes and bands of silver and ultramarine and yellow, bright orange and crimson, deep black. Mongrel dogs with curly tails nosed for scraps beneath the stalls, and an occasional cat shrank back and crouched in alarm at the sight of the strangers passing. Soon Mansur turned into the broad, leafy lane that climbed towards the palace, and ten minutes of walking brought them to a point where the path widened out and gave a clear view of the Sultan’s residence just ahead. Unlike the simpler homes of his subjects, the Sultan’s palace was built with brick walls and had a roof of dark-red tiles. A broad portico, its roof supported by tall wooden columns, ran the full length of the front of the building. Two small saluting cannon stood on each side of the steps leading to the double entrance doors. The guns pointed out over the harbour, and the strange carriage of the day before was parked prominently close by.
‘A gift from the Spanish, long ago,’ the chamberlain explained, indicating the carriage. ‘They left some horses as well. But the animals soon died. Nevertheless, the Sultans of Omoro still set great store by its use. No other ruler has such a conveyance.’
Several natives who looked like palace guards lounged at the head of the steps. When they saw the chamberlain coming towards them, they scrambled to attention, and one of them hurried inside.
‘Those are kabo, the Sultan’s gatekeepers, and they have gone ahead to announce our arrival. You must follow our rules of etiquette,’ warned Mansur as he led them up the steps and in through the tall double doors. ‘Always address the Sultan as “Your Majesty” and do not approach closer than ten feet. It will also be appreciated if you would speak loudly and clearly. He is getting a little deaf.’
They passed through an antechamber where several more kabo were on duty, and then into a large reception hall. Shafts of sunlight streamed in through small windows high in the walls and made pools of such bright light that it was difficult to see into the shadowy outer fringes of the room. There was very little by way of furniture – some carved chests, a few low tables and several silk screens. The floor was covered in coir matting. Various men were standing about, but appeared to be doing nothing more than passing the time in silence. They were dressed like Mansur in long, loose black gowns and the same pyramid-shaped velvet caps, and Hector presumed they were attendants and courtiers. A faintly musty fragrance pervaded the air and reminded Hector of the disused warehouse. There was a general sense of lethargy and inactivity. The chamberlain led his little group into the centre of the room, and a rhythmic swaying movement in the far shadows caught Hector’s attention. It was caused by a large feathered fan, its long shaft held by a servant. He was wafting it back and forth. But the action was so slow and lazy that it scarcely disturbed the air.
Hector blinked. Beneath the fan and seated cross-legged on a low divan amid a mass of cushions was a small, very wizened old man. He wore a dishevelled white robe edged with yellow, and his lopsided turban was loosely tied and supported a tall spray of orange-red feathers. Under the bulk of the turban his face had so shrivelled with age that the bones of the skull stood out clearly. There were shadowed hollows at his cheeks and his temples where the flesh had fallen away, and his mouth was a pucker of wrinkles. From this ancient face peered a pair of watery, red-rimmed eyes. Hector guessed the shrunken old man was the ruler of Omoro and at least eighty years old, possibly more.
Mansur performed a low, graceful bow, bringing his hands up to his face in a gesture of obedience. Hector copied him, as did Dan, Jacques and Vlucht.
In a loud, high voice the chamberlain launched into some sort of introduction. When he finished there was a pause while the Sultan squinted several times as if trying to focus his gaze. Then he waved a tiny, claw-like hand towards a small inlaid box on a low table beside him and croaked a few words in a language that Hector found incomprehensible.
‘His Majesty asks if you will partake of betel nut with him,’ Mansur translated into Spanish, quickly adding in a low voice, ‘You are not expected to accept. This is a formality.’
Hector realized that his companions behind were waiting for him to speak up on their behalf.
‘Your Majesty,’ he said in Spanish, ‘it is a very great honour to be received at your court.’
The Sultan gave a sudden grimace, which Hector took to be a smile. There was a manic air about the old man. It was as if he might suddenly burst into a cackle of laughter or shriek angrily. The old man looked straight at Hector and mumbled a few words, which were clearly meant to be understood without the need for an interpreter. Hector surmised that the Sultan imagined he was speaking Spanish. If so, his meaning was lost.
To cover his confusion and hide his ignorance, Hector bowed again.
Mansur came to his rescue. ‘His Majesty thanks you for your presents,’ he murmured.
For a moment Hector failed to understand what the chamberlain meant. Then one of the Sultan’s attendants emerged from behind a screen. The man was holding a cushion on which lay the Westflinge’s main steering compass. He advanced towards the Sultan, knelt and placed the cushion and compass on the ground in front of him. Moments later another attendant appeared with the ship’s spare compass, then in quick succession the servants brought in half a dozen of the muskets that had been recovered from the camp and laid them out on the wooden floor.