Bringing the camels to a halt, Hadir calls a friendly greeting to a guard in a chainmail apron and a conical helmet wrapped in white cloth, who shelters from the sun in the shadow of the gateway. He has a wickedly curving scimitar at his belt, and a matchlock considerably newer than Izîl’s over his shoulder. The two exchange what Nicholas takes to be pleasantries, delivered at the same impenetrable speed. As Hadir speaks, the guard studies Nicholas in frank disbelief. Then he shrugs, dispatches a boy squatting in the shade of the left-hand tower to carry the news of their arrival to some destination unknown and, with a private joke to Hadir and a final shake of his head, nods them on their way into the city.
‘He said England must be a poor land if their envoys look so unremarkable,’ Hadir tells Nicholas cheerfully. ‘When the sultan sends an ambassador, he sends him robed in silk and bedecked with jewels, bearing a whole caravan of gifts.’
Nicholas gives Hadir a tight smile to show he’s not offended. ‘My queen would rather spend her coin on fighting enemies,’ he says, in what he hopes is a suitably imperial tone. ‘And if there’s any flattery to be dealt, she prefers it to be imported.’
In a garden shaded by the towering red city walls the camels fold themselves onto their knees like discarded empty wineskins. As his mount sinks beneath him, Nicholas tries to remember what he’s learned in the past three days. Hadir has told him that Christians are only allowed into the city by the express permission of Sultan al-Mansur; they must live together in a quarter named the Aduana; the Jews reside in the el-Mellah district to the east of the sultan’s great palace, where they help the cogs of trade between Christian and Moor turn with as little friction as possible; and each community is allowed to practise its own faith and custom in peace. But Hadir has not managed to teach Nicholas how to dismount from a camel with any semblance of dignity.
As if to rub salt in the wound, he spots in the corner of the garden a clutch of women regarding him with amused interest. They are clad in brightly dyed gowns and headdresses adorned with long ribbons studded with metal discs that flare in the sunlight. One of them, younger than the others, stabs an elbow into a neighbour’s side and the two women laugh conspiratorially. It makes him think of how Bianca and Rose like to prick his occasional lapses into pomposity.
He makes the best fist of it that he can, trying not to wince as the muscles in his thighs protest when he swings his right leg over the pommel and slides off like someone slipping down a muddy bank.
A man of Izîl’s age appears, armed not with an ancient matchlock but a round silver tray, on which stands an array of glass cups and a jug with an intricately etched lid. He lifts the jug and, from shoulder-height, pours a stream of dark liquid into the cups without splashing a drop.
‘It is atay,’ Hadir tells him. ‘The leaves come from China. The sugar and the mint are ours. The result is from heaven.’ He lifts his glass. ‘You must drink thrice while the leaves brew. The first drink will be as sweet as life. The second as strong as love. And the third as bitter as death. Is custom!’
Grateful to have his thirst quenched, Nicholas drinks. The atay is sweet and fragrant. Piping hot and deliciously refreshing, it has the aromatic tang of mint.
Over the rim of his cup, he sees Hadir watching him. His expression keeps shifting between pride and expectation. But the eyes, wide and brown, brim with a hope forged in the furnace of disappointment.
‘What is it, Hadir? Is something wrong?’
Hadir shuffles on his haunches. ‘Is a long way from Safi to Marrakech,’ he says, as though the thought has only this minute occurred to him.
‘Yes, I’m glad it’s over.’
‘And the road is dangerous. Many bandits.’
‘Yes. I’m glad we had Izîl and his musket.’
‘Izîl’s musket very powerful. He makes good black powder with best saltpetre. Kill all bandits.’ He makes an explosive puff with both mouth and hand.
‘Thanks be to God, he didn’t need to,’ Nicholas says.
Hadir suddenly looks very serious. ‘But saltpetre very costly. Izîl has wife and five children.’
Even in the heat, Nicholas feels his cheeks bloom with embarrassment. ‘Of course. I understand.’
He crosses to where his camel is resting, its mobile mouth munching on the sparse vegetation. Unlocking his travelling chest, he takes out a ducat from the Portuguese coins Cecil has provided and returns to Hadir. The lad has watched his every move, but his feigned astonishment would put to shame the best of actors at the Rose theatre of Bankside. You’re well on your way to becoming a seasoned merchant, thinks Nicholas with a smile.
After that, it is simply a matter of waiting while a succession of officials appears, each apparently more important that the last, judging by the volume of the shouts they hurl at their growing number of attendants. It is only when a man in a white turban, which shrouds his face and hangs in plush folds around his neck, arrives that the mood in the garden changes. The dispenser of atay disappears, along with the women. And this time there is no shouting. Nicholas notices Hadir’s hands are trembling. The lad seems about to drop to his knees in supplication. Nicholas wonders if protocol requires him to follow. But the man reaches out and stops Hadir with the gentlest of touches on the left shoulder.
He is clearly a man of great importance, though simply dressed in a white silk robe with a narrow jewelled sash across the breast. Nicholas guesses he is in his middle thirties. The well-barbered black beard lies against the gleaming drape of the turban like dried blood splashed over white marble. He carries himself with an almost feminine grace. His dark eyes are quick and perceptive, the brows jet-black and gracefully arched. The face, sundered by a long curving nose, could almost be tyrannical, were it not for a mouth that seems ever about to break into an indulgent smile. The man addresses Nicholas directly: in Italian.
Caught off-guard, Nicholas confirms that he is indeed the envoy sent by Minister Cecil. But his own Italian – learned mostly from Lutheran mercenaries in the Low Countries, the rest from Bianca, and none of it diplomatic – is soon exhausted.
Rolling his dark eyebrows at Nicholas’s discomfort, the man tries Spanish. Nicholas grimaces apologetically.
Giving up, the newcomer fires a stream of instructions to the quaking Hadir. A single snap of his fingers brings forth a scurrying minion bearing a heavy key a foot long. This is solemnly entrusted to Hadir as if it were part of the crown jewels. Then, his astute eyes lingering for a final – and clearly disappointed – appraisal of the newly arrived English envoy, the man in white shakes his head in disbelief and departs, his silent attendants gliding away in his wake. Hadir watches him go like someone who’s just had a close shave with death.
‘I have seen him, but never do I speak with him,’ he whispers, clearly in awe.
‘Were we in the presence of Sultan al-Mansur?’ Nicholas asks.
He might as well have asked if they’d just been visited by the Holy Roman Emperor, given the laugh his question elicits from Hadir. ‘No, Sayidi Nich-less. The sultan would not leave his cushions to greet an infidel!’
‘Then who was that?’ Nicholas asks, wondering if it is the fate of all envoys to be insulted by their hosts.
‘That was His Excellency Muhammed al-Annuri, the sharif’s most trusted minister.’