We hire a rowboat to take us across the river, and from the water, I watch the sand-colored garrison that dominates the opposite coast draw closer. The walls rest on the edge of the sea, their foundations nearly hanging over the Atlantic. The city itself climbs the hills above it, the silhouettes of minarets and domes and whitewashed stone houses peeking over the walls. Cannons poke out between the ramparts, each of them a slightly different style and bearing a unique crest. Green flags emblazoned with a split scimitar snap in the wind off the water.
“Is the whole city made up of corsairs?” I ask in English.
“Mostly.” Monty says, grabbing the side of the boat to steady himself as we strike an errant wave. “Some more active in the business than others, and some who only handle the bits of piracy that happen on land. When the Spanish exiled all the Muslims, a lot of them came here, and more than a few wanted revenge on the Spanish, so they started raiding galleons with the support of the Moroccan crown.”
“Why would the crown support piracy?” I ask.
“Because the king gets ten percent of their take. And he’s descended from exiled Muslims, so he also hates the Spanish. Who doesn’t, really?” The sun strikes the water, turning it to a diamond field stretching between us and the shore. I shield my eyes. “Now they’ll raid any ship in their waters, Spanish or not, and more outside pirate fleets moved in because they knew they’d be protected.”
“So it’s a pirate republic?” I ask. In spite of how morally opposed I am to piracy, the concept itself is fascinating.
“More or less,” Monty replies. “Though I have a sense your definition of republic is more technical than mine.”
“Is that what the sailors were hoping to ward against?” I ask. “Pirates?”
But Monty laughs. “They’d need a hell of a lot more than a few staves to keep them away.”
As we approach the dock, a man on the shore throws our boatman a rope, and he catches it with an arm covered in black-inked illustrations. Monty catches me staring and clicks his tongue until I tear my gaze away. “Remember,” he says quietly. “Everything here is stolen, and everyone is armed, so try not to stare.”
We enter the city through a stone archway covered in ornate carvings. The buildings lining the street are washed in white or the same blue as the sea, the paint cracking in places to reveal the peach terracotta beneath. Monty assures me he knows where he’s going, leaving me nothing to do but follow him and marvel at the palm trees with their wide fronds and hairy trunks, which I have never seen growing outside the royal conservatory. Without him as my guide, I would not only be lost, but likely stupefied. The smells alone are overpowering—sand and incense and mules and goats tied up outside blue-doored houses, spices tossed in bright clouds across mutton turning over open fires. Even the smoke smells different, flames devouring wood that doesn’t grow in England. I’ve never been to a city that didn’t reek of sewage and soot, nor one where the predominant color wasn’t gray. I wish Lou were here to see it all with me—she loves London in all its filthy glory. A place like this would charm her to bits. I allow myself to entertain a brief fantasy of bringing her here someday, walking these streets hand in hand and showing her the spots I already knew. I would be confident and lead the way, and I’d know the best foods, and wouldn’t worry they would make me sick. I’d take her to lookouts and galleries without questioning my own taste, and I would not apologize if we grew lost or feel guilty if every schedule we made was not followed to the minute. Perhaps we’d travel without a schedule at all.
All obviously impossible, because that version of me will only ever exist in my own imagination.
As Monty leads me through the narrow brick walkways climbing at impossible angles, we are more than once forced to stop to let donkeys with wide panniers on their backs pass us. “So it’s a bit of an unorthodox living situation that our Veronica is in,” Monty tells me, his words punctuated by gasps. We’re both out of breath from the climb.
“I thought she was called Felicity.”
“She is, but now we’re calling her Veronica.” He swats a fly off his forehead. “Her life is unnecessarily complicated.”
If only we’d had weeks alone on a boat with nothing for you to do but explain this before we docked, I think. “Is she part of one of the pirate fleets here?”
“She is indeed. They’re called the Crown and Cleaver.”
“Are they dangerous?”
“No, they’re actually known as the cuddliest fleet in the Mediterranean.”
I consider crossing my arms petulantly, but their momentum may be the only thing carrying me up this hill. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”
“I am,” he replies solemnly. “So Ronnie fell in with the daughter of the commodore when we were younger—”
“What does the commodore do?” I ask.
“Oversees the affairs of the entire fleet. There are governors in each port city who are more involved with local business, and they report to the commodore, who is usually at sea or in their court city. The Crown and Cleaver are mainly based in Algiers, but they have a significant presence here.” He points with two fingers to one of the towers that jut up from the city walls.
“Are they the official ruling government?” I ask. “Or more like the gangs of London?”
“More formal than the gangs—every fleet has accords and contracts all their sailors sign, which are enforceable under the law. The London gangs can only dream of being as organized as the Berber pirates.” He swats at another fly and nearly smacks me in the face. “So Felicity—”
“Wait, that is her name?”
“Yes, please keep up. Felicity is quite chummy with this fleet and they let her do things with natural philosophy in their waters. She used to live in Amsterdam but then came back here to focus more fully on her research and—hold on.” He pauses to catch his breath. The street is quiet, but I can hear the call to prayer from a nearby mosque echoing over the rooftops. “The point is,” he says after a moment, “last I heard, she was based out of Salé, and even if she’s at sea or changed locations, the Crown and Cleaver can direct us from here.”
“And once we find Felicity—”
“Veronica.”
“—she’ll have a ship for us to take to Portugal?”
“Yes.” Monty nods once, then adds, “Hopefully.”
“What—” I start, but he’s already walking again, and I have to jog to catch up. All of this would have been so helpful to know in advance. I berate myself for not asking, though even my arsehole brain acknowledges there is no way I could have possibly anticipated adding Is my sister allied with an African pirate duchy and how much pirate interaction will this trip include? to my list.
Monty considers a fork in the path for a moment, then settles upon the right. “So that’s the situation. Any questions?”
“Are they a democracy?”
He stops walking so suddenly I step on the back of his shoe. “What?”
“The pirate fleet. Is it a democracy? Or, democratic monarchy, if they have a commodore, I suppose. Or is each territory self-governing? Like a city-state.” When he doesn’t answer, I add, “Do you know anything about the wealth distribution, or their welfare system?”