'Speak Spanish?' he asked.
'I do,' the Moor replied in good Castilian.
The Captain looked at the dagger in the man's belt.
'That's a good knife you have there.'
'I think so.'
'And an even better hand.'
‘Uah. So they say.'
They regarded each other for a few moments in silence.
'What's your name?'
'Aixa Ben Gurriat.'
If I was expecting more words, more explanations, I was disappointed. A half-smile similar to the Captain's appeared on the Moor's bearded face.
'Let's go,' the Captain said, taking one last look at the corpses. 'But first, we'd better set fire to the tent. That way we can avoid any awkward questions.'
This proved to be an unnecessary precaution. No one missed the two ruffians — we learned later that they were a pair of friendless, low-life, good-for-nothings — and their names were simply added to the list of men lost. As for the return journey, it proved hard and dangerous, but triumphant too. The road from Tlemcen to Oran, beneath a vertical sun that reduced our shadows to a dark line at our feet, was filled by a long column of soldiers, captives, plunder and livestock, with the
beasts — sheep, goats, cows and the occasional camel — in the vanguard, in the care of mogataces and Moors from Ifre. Before leaving Uad Berruch, however, we experienced a moment of great tension, when the interpreter, Cansino, after interrogating the prisoners, fell silent, turning this way and that. He reluctantly informed Sergeant Major Biscarrues that we had attacked the wrong place, that the mogataz guides had made a mistake — or had deliberately misled us — and directed us to an encampment inhabited by peaceful Moors who always paid their dues promptly. We had killed thirty- six of them, and I assure you I have never seen anyone as angry as the sergeant major became then. He turned bright scarlet, the veins in his neck and forehead bulged as if they were about to burst, and he swore that he would have every guide hanged, along with their forefathers, their whorish mothers and their porcine progenitors.
The fit of rage was quickly over, though. After all, there was nothing to be done, and so, ever practical and prepared for whatever life might throw at him, Biscarrues finally calmed down. Regardless of whether they were peaceful or hostile, he concluded, the Moors would still fetch a good price in Oran. They were certainly hostile now, and there was no more to be said.
'What's done is done,' he said, settling the matter. 'We'll be more careful next time. So not a word, eh, and if anyone's tongue runs away with him, by Christ, I'll tear it out myself.'
And so, after tending the wounded and having something to eat — bread baked in the ashes, a few dates and some curdled milk we'd found at the encampment — we marched with a lighter step, harquebuses at the ready and keeping a watchful eye open, hoping to find ourselves safely back in town before nightfall. And on we went, with the livestock in the vanguard, followed by most of the troops and the baggage, and then, in the middle, the captives, of whom there were two hundred and forty-eight, men and women and those children of an age to walk. A select squad of soldiers, armed with pikes and harquebuses, brought up the rear, while the cavalry either rode on ahead or protected our flanks, just in case any hostile Moors should try to block our retreat or deprive us of water. There were, in fact, a few minor fights and skirmishes, and before we reached a place known as the hermit's well, where there were plenty of palm trees and carobs, the Arabs, a good number of whom were on the lookout for stragglers or some other opportunity, made a serious attempt to keep us from the water: a hundred or so bold horsemen, shouting and hurling the usual obscenities, attacked our rearguard. However, when our harquebusiers prepared their weapons and then sprayed them with lead, the horsemen turned tail, leaving some of their men dying on the field.
We were in high spirits over our victory and the booty, and were eager to reach Oran and claim our share. The lines from a well-known song came spontaneously to my young lips:
Such was the custom of the age, That a fiercely gallant knife or sword, Which put to death a slew of Moors Would also glorify Our Lord
Nevertheless, two incidents overshadowed any pleasure I felt during the retreat from Uad Berruch. One involved a newborn baby who, though dying in his mother's arms, was still not spared the rigours of the march. When he saw this, the chaplain, Father Tomas Rebollo, who had accompanied the cavalcade as part of his duties, summoned the sergeant
major and said that since the child was dying, the mother had therefore lost all her maternal rights, which meant thathe could legitimately baptise the child against her will. Given that there was no council of theologians on hand to pronounce on the matter, Biscarrues, who had other things on his mind told the priest to do as he thought best; the priest, ignoring the mother's protests, snatched the child from her and baptised it there and then, with a few drops of water, oil and salt. The child died shortly afterwards, and the chaplain congratulated himself, saying that, on such a day — when so many enemies of God, members of the pernicious sect of Mohammed, had been condemned to Hell — an angel had been sent up to Heaven to learn more of its secrets and to confound its enemies, etcetera, etcetera. Later, we learned that the Marchioness of Velada, the governor's wife — a very pious woman who gave alms, said her rosary and took communion daily had praised Father Tomas's decision and ordered that the mother be sent for so that she could console her and convince her that she would one day be reunited with her son, thereby attempting to convert her to the one true faith. This proved impossible. On the same night that we arrived back in Oram, the woman hanged herself out of despair and shame.
The other lingering memory is that of a little Moorish boy of about six or seven who kept pace with the mules on which were tied the heads of the dead Arabs. At the time, the governor of Oran offered a reward — or, rather, said he would — for every Moor killed in an act of war, and, as I said, the raid on Uad Berruch was deemed to be just that. And so, to provide the necessary proof, we were carrying the heads of thirty-six adult Moors, who would add a few maravedies to our share of the booty. Anyway, this boy was walking alongside a mule on which a dozen heads were slung in two bunches on either side of the saddle. Well, if the life of any clear- thinking man is full of ghosts that come to him in the dark and keep him from sleeping — and by God, my life has more than its share — what stays with me is the image of that grubby, barefoot, runny-nosed child, his tears carving dirty trails down his dusty cheeks, walking next to the mule, and returning again and again, however often the guards drove him off, to brush away the flies from his father's severed head.
The House of La Salka was both a brothel and a smoke- room, and that is where we set up our quarters the following day, as soon as the sale of booty was over. The whole of Oran had been celebrating since the previous night when, with the last light of day, once we had left the livestock in the pens at Las Piletas, near the river, we had made our triumphal entry through the Tlemcen gate, marching in squadrons with the captives before us, flanked by soldiers bearing arms. We marched along the road which was lit up with torches, heading straight for the main church. There, the slaves, hands bound, were paraded past the Holy Sacrament that the priest had brought to the door, accompanied by clergy, cross and holy water. And once the Te Deum had been sung in recognition of our victory, every owl went off to his own olive tree until the following day, when the real celebrations began, for the sale of slaves proved highly lucrative, bringing in the goodly sum of forty-nine thousand six hundred ducats. Once the governor's share had been deducted as well as the King's quint, which, in Oran, was used to buy supplies and munitions, and once what was owed to the officers, the Church, the veterans' hospital and the mogataces had been paid out, the Captain and I found ourselves richer by five hundred and sixty reales each, which meant that we had the agreeable weight of seventy fine pieces of eight in our respective
purses. Sebastian Copons, given his rank and position, earned somewhat more.
As soon a
s we had collected our money from the house of a relative of the interpreter Aron Cansino — we almost had to get our knives out at one point because he wanted to fob us off with coins that had not been weighed or that were worn too smooth at the edges — we decided, naturally enough,to spend a little of it. And there the three of us were, in the house of La Salka, enjoying ourselves to the hilt.
The owner of the brothel was a middle-aged Moorish woman, baptised a Christian, the widow of a soldier, and an old acquaintance of Sebastian Copons, who assured us that, within reasonable limits, she was thoroughly trustworthy. The whorehouse was near the Marina gate, sitting among the terraced houses behind the old tower. From the roof there was a pleasant view over the countryside, with the castle of San Gregorio to the left, dominating the bay full of galley and other ships below; and in the background, like a greyish' wedge between the port and the blue immensity of the Mediterranean, stood the fort of Mazalquivir, its gigantic cross standing before it.
The sun was already setting over the sea, and its warm rays fell on Captain Alatriste, Copons and myself as we sat on soft leather cushions in one corner of the roof terrace, our every wish granted, well supplied with drink and food and the other things one finds in such places. We were accompanied by three of La Salka's girls with whom, shortly before, we had shared rather more than words, although we had stopped short of the final trench; for the Captain and Copons, very sensibly, had managed to persuade me that it was one thing to take pleasure in female company and quite another to loose one's bow, so to speak, and risk catching the French disease or any of the many other illnesses with which such public
women — extremely public in the case of Oran — could ruin the health and life of the unwary. They were decent enough doxies. Two of them, not unattractive Christians from Andalusia, had come to earn their living in Oran having suffered far worse vicissitudes in the bordellos of the Sahara, which, in their profession, were the deadest of dead ends; the third was a renegade Moor, too dark for Spanish tastes, but a handsome creature, and skilled in the type of art not written about in books. At the clink of our new silver coins, La Salka had brought them to us, telling us how clean and sensual they were, these graduates in the art of the beast with two backs, although, as I say, we ourselves did not indulge in the latter. Even so, I would give my oath as a good Basque that La Salka was not exaggerating in terms of the woman who fell to me — the Moor, because I was the youngest.
But we did not only eat and drink, for as well as encountering some unusual spices, rather too strong for my taste, it was also the first time I had smoked the Moorish weed, prepared with great dexterity by one of the women, who mixed it with tobacco in long wooden pipes with metal bowls. I had never been keen on the stuff, not even in the form of the snuff that Don Francisco de Quevedo so enjoyed, but I was a novice in Barbary and eager to try anything new. And so, although the Captain declined the experience and Copons took only a couple of puffs, I smoked a whole pipeful and sat there, flaccid and smiling, my head spinning and my words slurred, feeling as if my body were floating above the town and the sea.
This did not prevent me from taking part in the conversation, which, despite the pleasant situation and the money we had on us, was not, at that particular moment, a cheerful one. We knew by then that our galley was due to weigh anchor in two days' time, and Copons, who would have liked
to come with us to Naples or, indeed, anywhere, would have to stay in Oran, because the powers that be would still not grant him licence to leave.
'So,' he said sombrely, 'it looks as if I'll be left to rot here until Kingdom come.' With that, he downed a whole pitcher of Malaga wine — which, although a little sour, was strong and flavourful.
I was gazing distractedly at the three doxies, who standing at the far end of the terrace, chatting and waving to passing soldiers. La Salka knew how freely money flowed after a cavalcade and her own corsairs were trained not miss any opportunity to drum up trade.
'Perhaps there is a way ...' Captain Alatriste said.
We both looked at him with interest, especially the usually impassive Copons, who had an expectant gleam in his eye. He knew his former comrade never spoke lightly.
'Do you mean a way of getting Sebastian out of Oran? I asked.
'Yes.'
Copons placed one hand on the Captain's arm, exactly on the spot where the Captain had inflicted a burn on himself years before in Seville, when he was interrogating that Genoan Garaffa.
'God's teeth, Diego, I'm not going to desert. I never have before, and I'm not going to start now.'
The Captain smoothed his moustache and smiled at his friend. It was a rare smile in him, both affectionate and frank.
'No, I'm talking about you leaving here honourably, with your licence neatly rolled up inside a tin tube. As is proper.'
Copons seemed bewildered. 'But I've told you already that Sergeant Major Biscarrues won't grant me a licence to leave. No one gets out of Oran, you know that. Only those who are passing through.'
Alatriste glanced over at the three women and lowered his voice. 'How much money have you got?'
Copons frowned, wondering what on earth that had to do with anything. Then he understood and shook his head.
'Out of the question,' he said. 'Even with the money I earned from the cavalcade, I wouldn't have enough.'
'How much?' insisted the Captain.
'Not counting what I'm going to spend here, about eighty escudos, perhaps a few maravedies more. But as I said—' .
'Just suppose you struck lucky, what's the first thing you would do in Naples?'
Copons laughed. 'What a question! In Italy and without a penny in my pocket? I'd enlist again, of course. With the two of you, if I could.'
They sat looking at each other for a while. I was gradually descending from the clouds and was watching them closely. The mere idea that Copons might come with us to Naples made me want to shout for joy.
'Diego ...'
Despite the doubtful tone in which Copons uttered the Captain's name, the hopeful gleam was still there in his eyes. The Captain took another sip of wine, thought for a moment longer and nodded.
'Your eighty escudos, plus my sixty or so from the cavalcade, that makes ...'
He was tapping his fingers against the brass tray that served as a table, counting it out, then he turned to look at me. The Captain may have been fast with a sword, but his speed did not extend to arithmetic. I forced the last vaporous clouds from my mind, rubbing my forehead.
'One hundred and forty,' I said.
'That's nothing,' Copons replied. 'Biscarrues would demand five times that amount for me to buy myself out.'
'We have five times that amount, at least I think we do Let's see ... One hundred and forty, plus my two hundred from the galliot we sold in Melilla.'
'You have that much money?' asked an astonished Copons.
'Yes, the strokesman — a gipsy from Perchel, condemned to ten years on the galley and more feared than the galleymaster himself — keeps it safe for me at half a real's interest per week. What does that come to, Inigo?'
'Three hundred and forty,' I said.
'Right, add in your sixty escudos.'
'What?'
'Add them in,' he said, his pale eyes piercing me like daggers. 'What does that make?'
'Four hundred.'
'That's not enough. Add in your two hundred from the galliot.'
I opened my mouth to protest, but from the look the Captain gave me, I realised it was pointless. The last threads of cottony cloud vanished at once. Farewell, savings, I said to myself, my head suddenly clear. It had been wonderful to feel rich — while it lasted.
'Six hundred escudos exactly,' I said, resigned now.
Captain Alatriste turned to Copons, his face radiant.
'With the back pay that's owed to you - which, when it arrives, will go straight into your sergeant major's pocket — that's more than enough.'
Copons swallowed hard, looking from me to the Cap
tain and back again, as if the words had got stuck in his throat. I couldn't help, once again, remembering him in different situations: on the front line at the battle of the Ruyter Mill, deep in the mud of the Breda trenches, smeared with gunpowder and blood at the Terheyden
redoubt, sword in hand in a Sevillean garden, or scrambling aboard the Niklaasbergen at Barra de Sanlucar. Always the same: small, silent, wiry, hard. 'God's teeth,' he said.
Chapter 4. THE MOGATAZ
Having donned hats and buckled on swords, we left the whorehouse just as evening came on and the first shadows began to fill the most secluded corners of Oran's steep streets. It was a very pleasant temperature at that hour, perfect for a stroll. The town's inhabitants were sitting on chairs or stools at the doorways of their houses and a few shops were stillopen, lit by oil lamps and tallow candles.
The streets were full of soldiers from the galleys, as well as from the barracks, all celebrating their good fortune on the cavalcade. We stopped again to wet our whistles — the wine this time was a decent claret — and stood leaning against a wall, opposite a small makeshift tavern installed in the porch of a house and attended by an old cripple. While we were there, a party of five captives, led by a constable, came down the street. They were all chained together, three men; and two women, and had obviously been among those who were sold that morning. They were being led home under guard by their new master, who was dressed all in black and wearing a ruff and a sword. He had the look of a functionary grown rich by stealing the wages of the men who had risked their lives capturing these people. All five, including the two women, had been branded on the face with an S that identified them as slaves, and they walked along, heads bowed, resigned to their fate. Branding them was quite unnecessary, and some considered it old-fashioned and cruel, but the Law still allowed slave-owners to mark captives so that they could be identified should they attempt to run away. I saw that the Captain had looked away in disgust, and I imagined the mark — made not with red-hot iron, but with cold steel — that I would make on the master of those poor unfortunates if ever I had the chance. I hoped that when this man travelled back to Spain, he would be captured by some Berber pirates, end up in the prisons of Algiers and be soundly beaten. Although, I thought bitterly, people like him had more than enough money to buy their freedom. Only poor soldiers and humble folk — and thousands were captured at sea or on the Spanish coast — would rot there in Tunis, Bizerta, Tripoli or Constantinople, with no one to pay their ransom.
The Pirates of the Levant Page 7
