The rain has been coming down hard since the early hours, turning the ground to a
quagmire. It beats on the roof tiles and on the terraces where usually women hang out
washing and spy on the comings and goings of the men below. It beats on the green faience
of the Chaouia Mosque and on the four golden apples and the crescent moon atop its tall
minaret. It streaks the walls surrounding the palace with dark stains like blood.
The artisans stand with their robes plastered to their bodies, staring at the massive
slabs of cedar for the main gate, now sodden and mud-spattered. No one thought to protect
the wood against rain: this is the time when marigolds should carpet the scarred red hills
like drifts of orange snow and figs begin to swell in city gardens.
A continent away, the French king is engaged in extravagant plans for his palace and
gardens at Versailles. Sultan Moulay Ismail, Emperor of Morocco, has declared he will
construct a palace to dwarf this Versailles: the walls will run from here in Meknes for
three hundred miles over the mountains of the Middle Atlas all the way to Marrakech! The
first stage – the Dar Kbira, with its twelve towering pavilions, mosques and hammams,
courtyards and gar¬dens, kitchens and barracks and koubbas – is nearing completion. The
Bab al-Raïs, the main gate to the complex, is to be inaugurated in a day’s time.
Provincial governors from all parts of the empire have arrived for the dedi¬cation,
bringing with them presents of slaves, cloth-of-gold, French clocks and silver
candlesticks. At midnight Ismail plans to slaughter a wolf with his own hands, set its
skull in the wall and bury its body beneath the gate¬way. But how, if the door itself –
symbol of the entire grand enterprise – is not finished? And what will the sultan do if
his plans are thwarted?
At least one of the artisans is contemplatively feeling the back of his neck.
Across the compound a group of European slaves toils away on top of the outer walls,
repairing a monstrous hole where there has been an over¬night collapse. The pisé is
waterlogged: the sand and lime were probably not correctly cured in the first place, and
now the rain has made it fatally unstable. No doubt the repair will fail too, and then
everyone will be flogged for negligence. Or worse.
The workers are meagre of flesh and pale of skin, their faces sharpened by hunger,
their tunics ripped and filthy. One of them, heavy-bearded and hollow-eyed, gazes across
the desolate scene. ‘God’s bones, it’s cold enough to kill hogs.’
His neighbour nods glumly. ‘As grim as Hull in winter.’
‘At least there’s ale in Hull.’
‘Aye, and women.’
A general sigh.
‘Even the women of Hull look good to me after five months in this place.’
‘And to think you went to sea to get away from women!’
The laughter this remark provokes is brief and bitter. Survivors of months in the
stinking underground matamores in which they have been confined by these foreign devils
after being seized from merchant vessels and fishing boats from Cork to Cornwall, they
have spent their first weeks in Morocco telling their stories to one another, keeping the
dream of home alive.
Will Harvey straightens up suddenly, pushing his rain-slick hair out of his face.
‘Christ’s eyes, will you look at that?’
They all turn. An inner door within the great palace door opens and an odd contraption
pokes out, followed by a tall figure that has to bend almost double to exit, then draws
itself up to an exaggerated height. It wears a scarlet robe partially covered by a white
woollen cloak with gold borders. Above its turbaned head it holds a round testern of cloth
on a long handle which shields it from the driving rain.
‘What the devil is it?’ Harvey demands.
‘I believe it’s a bongrace,’ ventures the Reverend Ebslie.
‘Not the implement, you dolt: the thing that holds it. Look at how it picks its way
like a trained Spanish pony!’
The figure moves gingerly between the pools of standing water. Over its jewelled
slippers it wears a pair of high cork pattens at which the mud sucks greedily. The workers
watch its progress with growing fascination and soon begin to catcall:
‘Clownish fool!’
‘Catamite!’
It is a rare pleasure to pass a fraction of their torment on to another, even if their
target is a foreigner and does not comprehend the insults.
‘Mincing coxcomb!’
‘Lily-white quean!’
‘Half-and-half!’
As if this last and most innocuous remark has found its mark, the figure suddenly halts
and, tilting the ridiculous contraption back, gazes up at them. If its demeanour and
clothing have given the appearance of wilting femininity, the face that is turned up to
the hecklers gives the lie to that impression. Lily-white it most certainly is not; nor
delicate either. It looks as if it has been carved out of obsidian, or some hard wood
blackened by age. Like a war-mask, grim and immobile, it gives no sign of the human
beneath – except that a warning line of white shows under the black iris of the eye as the
man’s gaze scorches over them.
‘You should be more careful whom you insult.’
A shocked silence falls over the group of slaves.
‘One click of my fingers will bring your overseers running.’
In the shelter of a doorway some thirty yards away four men are brewing up a samovar of
tea. The vapour from the pot wreaths around them so that they look like wraiths. But the
impression of insubstantiality is deceptive: given the opportunity to dole out punishment
they would abandon their tea-making in an eye-blink and come storming into the world of
men, whips and cudgels at the ready.
The prisoners shuffle awkwardly, too late realizing the gravity of their error. No one
else speaks English in this godforsaken country!
The courtier regards them dispassionately. ‘Those men have been chosen for their
ruthlessness. Not an ounce of common humanity remains to them. They are instructed to
punish the lazy and the insubordinate without mercy and will kill you and bury your
corpses in the very walls you are rebuilding without any regret. There are always more to
take your place. Life is cheap in Meknes.’