‘The Moor of Cadiz,’ said Mingus Franklin.
They had stopped in front of a painting the size and shape of a front door. In the painting, the Moor was standing under a set of ornate arched columns on a flight of sandy stone steps with what looked like a mosque or a palace behind him, the perspective of the architecture calling attention to his height and build. Large baskets filled with fruit, vegetables and spices sat in a row on the step beneath him, symbols of his great wealth.
For Rémy, the man himself was a lot more impressive than his fruit and veg. His layers of white robes were cinched at his waist by a broad leather belt studded with silver, two swords sheathed at his sides. Criss-crossing his chest were two more belts with a variety of other knives of varying shapes and sizes tucked beneath them. He was wearing a yellow turban whose tail wrapped across his mouth and neck, leaving only his dark, penetrating eyes visible. A small sign beside the painting read: ‘On loan from the Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.’
‘He looks like a bad-ass,’ said Rémy in awe.
‘Little is known about him except that he was wealthy, perhaps the last Caliph to remain in Grenada. We can see he was a patron of the arts, well educated. He loved music.’
‘How do you know?’ The curator pointed out a beautiful lute propped up against one of the arches in the painting.
‘The painting tells us quite a lot,’ Mingus went on. ‘It’s clear from the fruits and spices by his feet that he traded widely with Asia and Europe. As a well-educated man, he will have spoken multiple languages. The term “Renaissance Man” would be just about perfect to describe him.’
Under heavy glass in a case next to the painting sat two rows of swords and knives sitting on velvet pads. Rémy stared. They matched the weapons in the portrait.
‘Those were found in the ruins of a palace near Seville, during an archaeological dig in the sixties,’ explained the curator. ‘We know they belonged to him because of the crest.’
Rémy’s stomach flipped as the taste of his egg sandwiches made a return because the design on the tip of the knife blades in both the case and the portrait matched the mark on the back of his neck.
‘It’s an unusual crest,’ Rémy managed to say. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘The Moor was an unusual man. He was one of the few Caliphs who remained after the Moors were expelled from Spain in 1492. He fought valiantly for his people and later was recognized by Queen Isabella as a “true Spaniard”. And then there was his great personal tragedy: the loss of his only son.’
‘His son died?’
‘We have a letter dated from the early sixteenth century that tells us the Moor’s son just disappeared one day. Was never seen again. According to this account, the Moor was never the same man again. He secluded himself from the world. We believe the Moor left Spain not long after, a broken man, never to return.’
Words in Latin were lettered in gold across the bottom of the frame. Rémy’s pulse raced as he read them: Musica vivificat mortuos. ‘Music gives life to the dead.’ He knew this phrase. The words were scribbled in his mother’s journal, over and over again, page after page.
Something made Rémy look up. A guard was staring at him, putting his radio to his mouth.
Instinct kicked in. Rémy broke into a sprint, away from the startled curator, hurling himself through the emergency exit as the alarms started screaming. The same polite recording voice of earlier that morning began to speak.
‘Please exit the building. Do not use the lifts. Do not panic. Please exit the building.’