The Cipher's Deadly Secret
The cavalry captain returned to the command tent. He approached the commander, bringing his Christian slave with him.
"Great Pasha, glory to Muhammad al-Arun." The cavalry captain bowed low in the Muslim fashion. Pasha, the title for a general. He showed maximum respect to Muhammad al-Arun, a royal of the Saadi dynasty.
At his arrival, al-Arun—who had been smoking a hookah—paused and looked at him.
"What is it, Captain?"
"Pasha..."
The cavalry captain reported exactly what had happened at dawn. It was important. Though the cipher's content couldn't be confirmed, heading to the Bensu coast meant they were trying to contact someone.
"Can you decode the cipher?"
"Give me time, and I'll have it deciphered shortly."
A Caesar cipher, breakable by substituting its 26 variables with algebra. Arab culture had always held the advantage in mathematics, so they could solve it easily with formulas.
"Very well. Anything else noteworthy?"
The Pasha nodded slightly as he eyed the cavalry captain. In response, the captain shook his head.
"That's all."
"Dismissed, then."
"Yes, sir."
The cavalry captain backed out of the tent in proper Islamic etiquette. Once he was gone, al-Arun fell into thought. He closed his eyes briefly. With a long sigh, the Pasha beckoned his adjutant standing nearby.
"Come here, Mutawa."
The adjutant knelt before the Pasha and looked up at his lord.
"Are you troubled?"
"I'm curious what the cipher means. Any guesses?"
"Yes... it looks like an attempt to contact Jermi Walli, the surrendered garrison commander."
"That's what I thought too... but something feels off."
"What part, exactly?"
"This Malaga Count landed not at the Bensu coast near his own garrison commander, but at Tangier beach alongside the Portuguese..."
"That's right."
"Doesn't that mean he suspected the surrender?"
Logical reasoning. The adjutant nodded.
"Entirely possible."
"Yet he sent a cipher that's easy to decode to contact that very commander..."
"You think it was deliberate?"
"I can't shake the feeling."
The Pasha scratched his eyebrow lightly—a habit when deep in thought.
"Intended or not, this letter will surely get his commander killed. What master would sacrifice his servant like that?"
"That's the issue... it feels like someone wants Jermi Walli dead. It's unsettling."
Logically, the letter endangered his own commander. Ignoring it to reuse the surrendered Jermi Walli would draw suspicion. Killing him felt off... sparing him invited doubt. They'd know more once the cipher was decoded, but either way, there was no reason to save Jermi Walli.
"Killing him is easier than flipping my palm. Wait until the fog in your mind clears."
"Hmmm..."
The Pasha stroked his chin. To shake off the unease, he took another pull from the hookah. As he passed the time this way, his mind growing tangled, a guard approached.
"The cipher's been decoded."
"Bring it."
"Yes, sir."
The guard withdrew. Moments later, he received the decoded message from outside, checked for safety, and presented it to his lord.
The Pasha took the decoded parchment and read it slowly. Muhammad al-Arun's face flushed red. He flung it aside and bellowed.
"Bind the surrendered Jermi Walli and drag him before me!"
His eyes blazed with fury. The adjutant Mutawa approached to calm him.
"Are you all right?"
"Hoo..."
The elf sighed and shook his head, pressing a hand to his forehead as if nursing a headache. As the Pasha leading the Moroccan army, he picked up the discarded decoded cipher.
"Read it."
"As you command."
Mutawa read it aloud, instantly grasping why his lord was enraged. For the royal Muhammad al-Arun, the events of 1556 were unforgettable. The assassination of the previous king by a Turkic killer—the Ottoman mainstream ethnicity. Afterward, the eldest son, Abdullah al-Ghalib, ascended the throne, prompting his brothers—Abdul Malik, Ahmad, and Abdul Mumin—to flee to Ottoman Algeria.
It was expected; heirs to the throne rarely survived a new king's rise. After battling Ottoman and Tunisian forces near Fez, the current king, Abdullah al-Ghalib, solidified his power.
It ended well, but it was a humiliation for the Saadi dynasty. Though victorious, one traitor who colluded with foreign powers—Abdul Mumin—remained uncaptured. He lurked somewhere in North Africa, biding his time.
The parchment didn't name him directly, but it referred to him clearly:
Withdraw from Bensu and make contact with Morocco's traitor lurking near Punta.
Punta lay near Bensu—a grassy area where someone hiding intentionally would be hard to find. Perfect for Abdul Mumin. Though far from the capital Marrakesh, its proximity to European powers like Portugal and Spain made it ideal for plotting. Worse, Abdul Mumin still had followers in Morocco. If he allied with the Malaga Count, who knew the land...
Ceuta might be safe, but the capital could be threatened. True or not, al-Arun had every reason to rage. As a royal, he couldn't tolerate a rebel leader still dreaming of treason—especially an internal Saadi affair unknown outside Ottoman-Moroccan circles. The Malaga Count knowing meant he'd contacted Abdul Mumin.
Thus, the reason was simple: interrogate the surrendered Jermi Walli until he revealed Abdul Mumin's location.
Understanding this, Mutawa fell silent. Tension filled the tent. The guards merely stood mute before the Pasha's wrath.
Then a guard broke the silence, dragging in the fully bound Jermi Walli.
"M-my lord... what's this about...?"
The elf rolled his eyes nervously. The Pasha stared at him.
"Your master sent you a letter."
"The Malaga Count...?"
Fury flickered across his face. Realizing he'd been abandoned, he'd surrendered to save his skin—duped by the young count. Rage at himself mingled with hatred for the Malaga Count.
"He's no master of mine. Just trash who discarded me."
"Is that so?"
The Pasha glanced at Adjutant Mutawa, who understood and unfurled the parchment before Jermi Walli.
"Can you read it?"
"Yes..."
Jermi Walli could read and write Arabic; his ancestors hailed from North Africa, and he'd learned from his great-grandfather.
"Th-this is..."
His eyes widened. He looked at the Pasha in shock.
"I swear by Allah, I knew nothing of this."
"Nothing?"
"Yes! I never received such orders. Just to seize Ceuta..."
"Right. Seizing Ceuta would let you contact the traitor."
Sensing something amiss, Jermi Walli slammed his forehead to the ground, pleading innocence.
"I swear by Allah and the Prophet Muhammad, I received no such command."
"I figured you'd play innocent."
The elf smiled coldly. At his gesture, guards appeared with brutal iron spits.
"Let's see how long you last before confessing the truth."
Before the Pasha, the horrific torture unfolded. Bound and helpless, Jermi Walli groaned in agony, cursing the Malaga Count as he died.
* * *
Suddenly, an itchy ear. I scratched it and muttered softly.
"Guess Jermi Walli cursed me out as he died."
A gift for the surrendered elf. Linking him to Morocco's shameful traitors ensured his doom. Knowing history, I understood better than anyone how humiliating those foreign-colluding betrayers were to royals like Muhammad al-Arun.
No wonder the Saadi prince leading the army flew into a rage. A mere garrison commander like Jermi Walli was surely tortured to death in his fury.
These pointy-eared Muslims had no qualms killing Christian slaves back then. Even converted, as a Catholic territory native, that view persisted. They valued slave lives below flies. Thus, Jermi Walli met a pitiful end as their outlet.
"Though I did orchestrate it."
Not my hands—the heretics' did the deed. Now Malaga County was fully under my control.
"Good outcome, but..."
Eliminating a rival via the enemy was a personal goal, not tied to seizing Ceuta. Just shaking their ranks a bit—nothing more.
We were still struggling.
"The Catholic alliance needs to hit Jerba Island soon to split their forces..."
Jerba was Ottoman turf, but a hotspot for Moroccan-Ottoman clashes. Abdullah al-Ghalib had solidified his throne by defeating them there, but at great cost—Algeria was now untouchable.
If the Catholic fleet struck Jerba, Algerian troops would divert... and Morocco wouldn't miss the chance. They'd split forces or ignore us seizing Ceuta and Tangier. Unlike barren Ceuta and Tangier, prosperous Algerian trade hub Algiers was the prize. They could reclaim the others anytime.
Praying in my tent for a swift Catholic commander appointment, a messenger burst in—looking frantic. I waved him forward without demanding protocol.
"Urgent dispatch! The Moroccan army is preparing for battle."
The Moroccans who'd tried to starve us out had changed tactics: now they aimed to crush us directly.