Arnaut Mamí’s men busied themselves unloading the ships’ loot, pulling down the sails, and rolling them up lengthwise. The oars were brought to the deck and then transported to a storage building nearby, along with the ballast. Eager to set foot on land and enter their city, the boatswains cracked their whips to make the men work faster. Yet all this activity could not distract me from the fact that we were now captives in the slave capital of North Africa.
We were ordered to remove our putrid clothes and crouch together on the deck. My rags adhered to me like a leprous skin. The corsairs hauled buckets of water from the sea and doused us, throwing squares of black soap at us, so that we could begin to wash off the grime which clung to our bodies like a dry, tough hide. Our scabby skin gave off a foul odor. When we were deemed sufficiently clean, we were instructed to soap and rub our faces and heads until they were lathered. Wielding sharp, gleaming blades, the corsairs shaved our heads and facial hair. Again we were drenched with buckets of water until we had washed away all vestiges of foam. I barely recognized the hairless and naked young man next to me as Rodrigo. By the time the corsairs put iron rings around my ankles, I already felt like a slave.
Buckets of drinking water and cups were distributed to us for the first time in days, as well as pieces of puffy and dry Algerian bread. We put our teeth to work, chewing without dignity, fighting for crumbs. Water and bread had never tasted better. It felt good to be clean and with a full stomach. Rodrigo and I sat next to each other in silence. As long as he was in my proximity, I was hopeful. I had to be strong and brave, to provide him a good example.
We were left in the sun for what seemed like hours. Our bodies dried, and our faces took on color—we no longer looked as if we were made of yellow wax. The sun’s rays returned us to a human state.
“Now that we look presentable, they’re ready to auction us off,” a man near me commented.
“My children, remember we belong to God and not to any man,” Father Gabriel, a young priest in our group, reminded us. Then one by one we approached him and kneeled at his feet. “Go with God, my child,” he said to each of us as he made the sign of the cross on our foreheads.
The men hugged each other in farewell, whispering words of encouragement, as we waited for the ordeal to begin. It had already been my experience that when fortune turned her back on me, it would be awhile before she smiled again.
We were ordered off the ship, walked down a long wooden plank, and assembled on the quay. Algerian corsairs pointing long, sharp lances stood between us and the women and children.
Suddenly we were startled by a din that sounded like hundreds of iron hammers tapping the street. The viceroy of Algiers, Hassan Pasha, a Sardinian renegade sent by the Grand Turk to rule that den of thieves and murderers, was arriving with his attendants to have first choice of the new crop of captives.
A squadron of showily attired warriors entered first through the doors of the city. They were the infamous Albanian Janissaries I’d seen portrayed in paintings and picturebooks. Just the mention of the word Janissary struck terror in the hearts of Europeans. It was well known that they were paid according to the number of Christian scalps they presented to their captains after battle. When they killed scores of the enemy, ears or tongues were taken as proof. If the slaughter had been greater, index fingers would be accepted instead.
As the Janissaries entered, I felt as if a noose had tightened around my neck. Even our captors looked at them in awe. Their blue eyes resembled smooth, dull pieces of glass that had been in the ocean for a long time and then washed ashore. Their eyes caught no light, as if they belonged to soulless creatures. A chill shot down my spine.
The Janissaries carried harquebuses and wore long daggers. A horn shape, wrapped in shiny green cloth, extended from one side of their white turbans. From the tips of the horns drooped white and black ostrich plumes, which nodded as they marched in. The Janissaries’ red leather shoes ended in a curled tip.
Behind the Janissaries marched Hassan Pasha’s infantry, wearing long-sleeved blue robes that fell all the way to their ankles, and over them red vests open at the chest. These men projected the strength of monumental beasts. Their arrogant strut, which created an infernal metallic clatter with the heels of their shoes, was mesmerizing. For the rest of my captivity in Algiers, I feared that sound more than any other. Once a captive heard it, it was time to run, hide, cower, jump over a wall, try to become inconspicuous, wish you could disappear with a puff.
A pageant of gold-haired boys, dressed in rich Turkish costumes, marched behind the soldiers. They played drums, trumpets, flutes, and cymbals. Their music was funereal, as if meant to put dread in people’s hearts, and their faces expressionless.
Behind the boys entered the cavalry, riding graceful white and black Arabian horses with bushy, perfectly groomed tails and bearing headdresses made of colorful plumes that fanned out in the manner of a peacock. Finally, there came Berber warriors on camels wearing dark-blue robes and headscarves that covered their faces, except for their midnight-colored eyes, which were rimmed by thick black lashes. These were the descendants of the Berber tribes that had invaded and conquered Andalusia centuries ago.
Neither the pope’s processions that I had seen in the Vatican, nor those of the king of Spain when he paraded through the streets of Madrid on special occasions, could match such a vision of luxury, color, and might.
Hassan Pasha, beylerbey of the Grand Turk, viceroy of the province of Algiers, made his entrance seated on red cushions, on a platform that was carried by giant, barefoot Nubian slaves dressed in loincloths that barely covered their private parts. Their smooth skin was so lustrous they did not need ornaments to make them beautiful. Hassan Pasha’s huge turban of crimson and deep blue was shaped like a full moon; from the middle of it projected a blue conical cap. He was draped in a cherry-colored robe that gleamed in the burning North African sun; a short animal wrap—copper-russet like the fur of a red fox—covered his shoulders. His full-length beard matched the color of the fur. He was massive, as if made of granite. His arched eyebrows and long, beaked nose gave him the look of a hawk ready to strike—and crack open—the skull of his prey.
With the help of a Nubian page he stood up and stepped off the platform, exuding immense power combined with unfathomable corruption and cruelty. The corsairs dropped to their knees, and placed their hands and foreheads on the ground. Arnaut Mamí was the first to raise his head. With a barely detectable nod, the beylerbey beckoned him to approach. Mamí advanced, taking small steps and bowing low. As he kneeled in front of Hassan Pasha, he took the hem of the beylerbey’s robe, kissed it, and cried, “Praise be to Mohammed!”
The beylerbey inspected the boys first, but showed no interest in the crop offered to him. From the cadre that accompanied his regiment, I deduced that he was already well stocked with European lads. Quickly he moved to the women, and reserved for himself the most beautiful and distinguished-looking señoritas and their duennas.
As the auction of the men began, Mamí said to Hassan Pasha, pointing at me, “The cripple is mine, Your Highness.” When the pasha saw my deformed hand, he flicked his own hand as if to make me vanish. I was pushed to one side of my group of compatriots and ordered to stand as close as I could to the women and children while still remaining chained to the other men. I felt then a pain more acute than that of the wounds I had received at Lepanto. Fear, disgust, and boiling anger overtook me. I swore I would do my best to someday hurt that walking incarnation of the devil.
The almighty pasha took more time choosing the men. First he singled out the strongest looking. Fortunately Rodrigo was of slender build—like all the Cervantes men. Then he engaged Arnaut Mamí in conversation, asking him to list the qualities and skills of the rest of the captives. Hassan Pasha claimed the two surgeons who were traveling aboard El Sol, as well as the carpenters, blacksmiths, and cooks. It was heartbreaking to see the desolation on the faces of these men, who knew that the pitiless ruler would v
alue their skills so much they would die as slaves.
When Pasha finished his selection, he spoke in Spanish to the men who were now his property: “Listen well, Christians: as of this moment you’re part of my army. From now on, if you work hard and don’t try to escape, I will reward you. And if you convert to Islam,” he paused so that the importance of his words would register on all present, “I swear by the name of Allah, I will give you your freedom.”
The rest of the men the viceroy had discarded were ordered to stand aside. They would be auctioned last, to rich people who needed house servants, gardeners, and teachers.
The beylerbey returned to his cushion, sheltered from the sun under a parasol of white ostrich plumes held by an African colossus. The auction of the remaining captives began. Hassan Pasha presided over the scene with a stony expression and sleepy eyes.
The Spanish and Italian children traveling with their parents, and the cabin boys, were sold first. A handful of men clothed in luxurious garments approached the innocents. We had all heard about the Turkish sodomites, who were the greatest fear of all parents in Christendom. These merchants of innocence looked inside the boys’ mouths and proceeded to count their teeth. Next, they pulled down the boys’ pants. “This will have to be removed right away,” said one buyer, yanking the foreskin of a trembling boy. It was the custom of the Turks to circumcise the boys as a first step in their conversion to Islam. There was no Christian unfamiliar with the story of a North African ruler who tied Christian boys to a column, then had them lashed until they embraced the Muslim faith. Those who refused to convert were beaten until their bodies were drained of blood.
A couple of sodomites started to haggle over two blond brothers. “I’ve fallen in love with these puppies!” a man shouted. “Arnaut Mamí, I must have them. I plan to adopt them as my own children when they become Muslims.”
The mother of the boys convulsed as she shrieked and then fainted. There was a commotion among the women who came to her succor and tried to revive her.
Arnaut Mamí made a face of disgust at the women. He said to the merchant, “I can sell the youngest for a hundred and thirty gold escudos, he’s just seven years old. At that age they never offer any resistance. You’ll be able to mold him to your own liking, without too much trouble. As for the oldest”—he took the boy by the hand and paraded him like a dog of the finest breed—“even Ganymede’s beauty would pale in comparison. You may not be able to afford him. This is the most perfect example of earthly beauty you’ll ever see.” Mamí ran his fingers through the boy’s hair.
The boy’s father tried to break away from our group. We restrained him, but he managed to yell, “Take your revolting hands off my boy, you monster!”
Mamí turned toward the man. “If I hear another sound from you, I will behead you and your woman.” And to the buyer, “You’ll never find a fairer catamite than this one. He will fetch easily five hundred gold escudos in any port on the Barbary Coast—and more in Turkey. Cadi, I’ll sell you the oldest if you buy the runt too.”
“By Mohammed, stop your haggling, Mamí,” the man named Cadi replied, becoming extremely agitated. “If that’s how it is, I’ll take both of them. Just name your price. I must have this boy”—he pointed again at the eldest. “I’ve fallen for his beauty, his gentle manner.” He addressed the trembling unfortunate: “What’s your name?
“Felipe, sir.”
“Listen to that honeyed voice,” Cadi said in a swoon to those around him. “And he has the grace of a gazelle.” To Felipe he cooed, “From now on, you will be my son and your name will be Harum.”
The man embraced Felipe tightly. The boy tried to wrestle himself free, and Cadi motioned to two of his slaves to grab the brother. The smaller boy wailed and kicked violently.
Felipe started yelling, “Father, where are they taking us?”
The boys’ father sobbed inconsolably as he shook his head. His mother had been revived and, feebly, she begged the buyer, “Please, please, sir. Let me embrace and kiss my boys for one last brief moment, since I’ll have to live forever with the pain of losing them.”
I feared for her life.
“Hurry up, woman,” Cadi grumbled. “These boys are no longer your children: they belong to me.”
Our women and men wept, some loudly.
Through her sobs, Felipe’s mother said to her sons, “My children, never forget that you’re Christians. Never deny our Lord Jesus Christ, our true Savior. Pray every day to His Holy Mother, who is the only one who can sever the chains that enslave you and who will give you back your freedom someday. Felipe, Jorge, never waver in your faith. Pray to Mary every day. Do not forget your parents, because we will never forget you. You will be in our thoughts and our prayers always.”
She dropped to her knees and pounded the floor with her closed fists, and the boys were led away.
The auction of the women soon began. They held each other and cried as they prayed. The protests of our men rose in volume, and we pulled and rattled our shackles. The beylerbey gestured to his giants to lash us until we quieted down.
Later I learned that many of these buyers were Moriscos expelled from Andalusia; that they bought Spanish slaves as a way of humiliating the crown and as an act of nostalgia for the land from which they had been expelled, and which they still considered theirs.
The auction of the rest of the captives commenced. The orifices and limbs of our men were inspected, and poked, as if they were beasts of burden. Rodrigo was put on the auction block. The face of my beautiful brother had turned the color of snow, and his hands trembled slightly, but he did not show fear, and behaved with the dignity of a true hidalgo. I felt miserable and worthless, fearing that I would never see Rodrigo again. Once more I had failed my family. I thought of the pain of my parents when they found out what had happened to their sons.
“He’s the cripple’s brother.” Mamí pointed at me. “The cripple will fetch a good ransom because he’s a war hero and a protégé of Don John. So this one should fetch a good ransom too. I am not selling him cheap.”
There were many bids for my brother, who was a fine and handsome example of the best of Spanish manhood. When Mamí advertised that Rodrigo played the vihuela, and had a beautiful singing voice, a merchant dressed in rich vestments offered two hundred gold escudos. The transaction completed, I overheard the man say to Rodrigo, “I’m buying you to teach music and singing to my children. You look like you will be a good tutor. If you teach my children well, one day you’ll be free.”
I knew that as a tutor in the house of a wealthy man, Rodrigo would be spared harsh labor and the lash, and he thus would have good chance of surviving in captivity. All was not lost.
* * *
The auction over, the beylerbey and merchants gone, those of us who stayed behind—about twenty men—were the property of Arnaut Mamí. He had kept the priests from El Sol, as well as the handful of gentlemen whose rich families would pay their ransom. The rest of the men would be put to hard labor, or become oarsmen on his ships.
We were handed our new slave clothing: two pieces of fabric—one to wrap around our waists, the other a coarse blanket to keep us warm—and we were informed the Bagnio Beylic was our destination. In single file, dragging our chains, we were led through the city gates. A throng of people—who had been waiting for the end of the auction—met us with taunts and jeers. Thus I entered the city known as the refuge of every depraved specimen of humanity that Noah had rejected from his ark. We began to climb the steps of Algiers’s ancient casbah, and dragged our shackled feet over steep and ever narrowing streets. Children followed us screaming, “Christian dogs, you will eat desert sand here!” “Your Don John is not coming to rescue you! You will die in Algiers!” The demonic urchins hit us with rotten oranges and balls of still-steaming donkey dung. I would gladly have shoved the dung down the urchins’ throats.
The casbah was a winding labyrinth, penumbrous, cool. Many of the houses looked as if they’d been built in
Roman times, or even earlier, when Phoenicians had occupied Algiers. As we shuffled up the hill, the stone steps seemed to multiply. Near the summit of the city the streets were so narrow only one man at a time could traverse them. Sturdy burros carried weighty loads up adjacent alleys. From the roofs of the dwellings men cackled and insulted us as we struggled with the slippery steps. Unveiled, but demure, Moorish women peered at us from the oval-shaped windows of their homes. Christians were considered so lowly, I later learned, that Algerian women did not have to cover their faces in our presence.
It was late afternoon when we arrived at a plaza at the top of the casbah. A rectangular white fort rose before us; its tall corner towers were patrolled by armed guards. We had arrived at Bagnio Beylic, infamous throughout the Mediterranean for its harshness. It had been built almost a hundred years earlier by the brutal Barbarosa brothers as a detention camp for those they had captured at sea and were holding for ransom. We were herded inside, where the long chain linking was removed; but our ankles remained shackled. The prison’s interior walls, lined with rooms on two levels, faced a cobblestone courtyard where hundreds of men milled about.
Despite my exhaustion, I wended my way through the crowd. My ears recognized many languages being spoken. The captives, it seemed, were gathered by nationality: Englishmen, Frenchmen, Greeks, Italians, Portuguese, and Albanians. Others spoke in languages I did not recognize.
A large number of Spaniards squatted on the floor, gambling. My fellow captives began to mingle timidly with our compatriots. I watched the scene, unsure of what to do next. If there were any gentlemen among my captive countrymen, slavery had transformed them into untrustworthy types. As soon as possible, I would have to grow eyes in the back of my head.
A captive playing dice shouted from the circle huddled on the floor, “You standing there! What’s your name? Where were you captured?”
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