Nicholas is under no illusions. If these are the men who tortured and murdered Adolfo Sykes, then his bluster will last only until they draw the knife.
‘What does he want from me? If I have transgressed some custom or other, I apologize. It was through ignorance. Nothing more.’
A short silence – graciously given to allow him time to consider the inadequacy of his statement.
‘I will ask you again, Dr Shelby. Why have you come to Marrakech? My master wishes to know.’
‘I told you. I am an envoy. Also, I have come to study physic in your land. In all civilized lands that would entitle me to safe passage. So now let me go.’
The man sitting before him seems unconcerned by royal letters expressing friendship, or even the diplomatic conventions of civilized lands. ‘I do not believe you,’ he says. ‘I think you are a spy. It is His Excellency al-Annuri’s task to root out spies. To crush them between his fingers like lice.’ He snaps the tip of his middle finger across his thumb to show how it is done. ‘Why did you visit the place where the infidel Sykes met his death? Why did you then visit his grave?’
It does not surprise Nicholas to learn that he was followed to the church in the Aduana. Cecil’s watchers in London do it to foreigners all the time. He falls back upon the fiction he told Hadir.
‘I was asked by someone in England to bring them news of him – a friend of Master Sykes. I would hardly call that spying.’
‘I do not believe you,’ says the kufiya.
‘It is the truth.’
‘I think you have come to replace him.’
‘Why should you think that? I’m not a member of the Barbary Company, I’m a physician. I don’t know the first thing about wool, other than how to darn a hole in it.’
The body of his questioner tilts towards him, as if a great confidence is about to be revealed.
‘The infidel Sykes was spy. He sent intelligence to the English queen. You have been sent to continue his work.’
‘He was just a merchant,’ says Nicholas. ‘If he was sending anything to England, it was probably information about trade. That’s not sedition. All merchants do it.’
Another long pause, while the kufiya considers this.
You’re feeding me rope to hang myself, thinks Nicholas. He wonders how long he can keep his head out of the noose. Or his breast away from the knife.
‘What is in the letter to our sultan? Have you read it?’
‘Yes – in England, before it was sealed.’
‘And its contents?’
‘An expression of greetings and continued goodwill. And a line or two commending me to His Majesty the sultan. I know Her Grace is eager to maintain the friendship between our realms, and to assist His Majesty in defending Morocco against the Spanish king. If you don’t believe me, it’s in the chest in my chamber. Read it. But you’ll have to explain to your sultan why someone else had first sight of a privy letter.’
The kufiya leans forward again. Nicholas thinks he sees the first flicker of uncertainty in those anonymous eyes.
‘What do you know of the death of Adolfo Sykes, Physician?’
‘Nothing. I was told it was an accident. Why do you keep asking me about Sykes? I’ve never even met him.’
‘This friend in England who asks after the infidel Sykes – what is his name?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘The name of this friend.’
The kufiya’s hand rests gently on the hilt of the curved dagger he wears at his belt. Nicholas has another awful vision of Hadir’s blood soaking into the plaster of the roof terrace, long ribbons of flesh stripped from his young chest.
He reasons that if al-Annuri already knows that Sykes was Robert Cecil’s agent, then telling his interrogator it was Cecil who sent him could prove as fatal to a physician as it could to a factor of the Barbary Company. So he pulls out of the air a convenient name from his past, one that will suit his professed reason for visiting Marrakech.
‘Fulke Vaesy,’ he says.
‘Who is this Vaesy?’
‘He was a medical man. I studied under him some years ago. He was learned in anatomy – at least, he thought he was.’
‘And how does this Vaesy in England come to know Adolfo Sykes in Marrakech?’
‘I haven’t the slightest notion. I was just asked to pass on his remembrances, that’s all. It’s not a crime. And it’s certainly not spying.’
The kufiya holds a brisk impromptu discussion with the men standing in the shadows behind him. Nicholas guesses that whoever their master is, he is not in the chamber with them.
‘What is your relationship with Minister Cey-cill?’
Nicholas’s heart sinks.
‘I am physician to Sir Robert’s son.’
‘And his father, Lord Burg-ley?’
‘I have no relationship with Lord Burghley. I’m simply carrying a letter of remembrance from him to Minister al-Seddik. They met in London.’
Another brief discussion, more hesitant than the first. It occurs to Nicholas that these men have been schooled in what to ask. Faced with answers they did not expect, they are uncertain how to proceed. Nicholas seizes his opportunity.
‘His Majesty al-Mansur will not look kindly upon those who harm an envoy from his trusted friend, Queen Elizabeth. In my realm it is customary to flay those who dishonour an emissary from an allied nation. Then we behead them. I suggest you tell His Excellency al-Annuri that.’
The kufiya studies him intently for a moment, as though trying to reach a conclusion.
‘How long do you intend to remain in our land, Physician?’
Nicholas feels brave enough now to step up the bluster. ‘After this outrage, for as short a time as possible!’
The kufiya gets to his feet. ‘That would be most wise.’ He walks over. Nicholas braces himself for a brutal kick in the ribs.
It doesn’t come.
‘Sultan al-Mansur is a busy man,’ the kufiya says. ‘He does not have the time to ensure the safety of every infidel who comes into our realm, not even those who are envoys of the English queen. Take my advice: go home at the earliest opportunity. You would not be the first man who has come here only to disappear into the slave market.’
They leave him sitting against the wall. When they close the door, he hears the sound of a key turning in the lock. As their voices fade away, Nicholas’s legs begin to tremble. He slides himself into the patch of light, hoping that the heat of the dying sun will thaw the cold tentacles of fear writhing in his stomach.
When Hadir unlocks the door and enters the storeroom there are tears in his eyes. ‘Thanks be to Allāh, the most merciful, the most compassionate – you are alive!’ he cries. ‘I thought you dead, like Sayidi Sy-kess.’
‘Where is everyone? Are they safe?’
‘All safe. But these men who came here, they said if we did not leave the house and stay away until after the al-maghrib prayers, they would kill us all. Starting with grandmother Tiziri.’
For a moment Nicholas wonders who Hadir is talking about. Then it dawns on him: he has no idea of the names of his Berber servants. But he is immeasurably relieved they are alive.
‘They claimed they were al-Annuri’s men,’ Nicholas says. ‘They wanted to know if I was a spy. I suppose, after Minister al-Seddik chased away his watchers, he decided to forgo diplomacy. Are they enemies, al-Annuri and al-Seddik?’
‘To Muhammed al-Annuri, all men are enemies. Except his master the sultan.’