/ sailed on the sea of Levant In search of the arrogant Turk, The one who, defying our Spain, Must die, or be punished with work.
I was particularly moved when we sailed past the gulf of Lepanto, for here Spanish sailors and soldiers traditionally lined up on the landward side of the ship to say a prayer in memory of the many Spaniards who had died there, fighting like furies, when the fleet of the Holy League destroyed the Turkish fleet in the battle of 1571. I was also moved, although in a different way, when we passed the island of Sapienza and the town of Modon, which still belonged to the Turks, for I remembered reading the name of Modon in the Captive's tale in the first part of Don Quixote, never imagining that I would one day set to sea, just as Cervantes did, and witness the very lands and seas where he fought in his youth — when he was not much older than I was at the time. He had found himself in Lepanto, and on board the galley Marquesa, on 'the most memorable occasion that the centuries, past and present, have ever seen, or that future centuries can hope to see'.
But I promised to tell you about the information vouchsafed by the Spanish renegade captured on the karamuzal. We did not know it then, but what he told us would dramatically affect our future and cost the lives of many valiant men. In order perhaps to ameliorate his fate at the hands of the Inquisition and to improve his situation on the galley — for he had been given one of the worst places on the rowing benches — the renegade asked to speak to Captain Urdemalas, saying that he had something of great import to tell him. Having given an account of his life — full of the usual lies — he revealed something that our captain found quite unbelievable: a great Turkish vessel was preparing to set sail from Rhodes to Constantinople, carrying rich merchandise and people of quality, among them a woman who was either a relative or a wife of the Great Turk himself, or was being sent to him to become his wife — the renegade was unsure on this point. As we soon found out — for there are no secrets on a galley — the Spanish renegade advised Captain Urdemalas that if he wanted further information, he simply had to turn the screws on the master of the karamuzal, who was also a renegade and had been assigned the same rowing position. The master of the karamuzal was originally from Marseilles but, on being circumcised, had changed his name to Ali Masilia. As it became clear, the Spaniard had a few scores to settle with him, and this was the perfect way to do so.
Given the potential importance of this information, Ali Masilia was duly put to torture. He was full of bravado at first, declaring that he knew nothing and that, besides, there wasn't a Christian alive who could make him talk. However, the first turn of the screw by the galley overseer, who threatened to make the renegade's eyes pop out of their sockets, was enough to persuade him to change his tune. Indeed, he proved so loquacious and eager to cooperate that Captain Urdemalas, fearing that his shouts would be heard by everyone, took him below to the food store. The Captain emerged shortly afterwards, stroking his beard and smiling from ear to ear.
That afternoon, taking advantage of the windless conditions and the calm sea, we hove to about half a league to the north of Mykonos. There, the skiffs were lowered into the water and the various officers met under the awning of the Caridad Negra, which was our flagship, captained by Don Agustin Pimentel, great-nephew of the old Count of Benavente, and to whom the Viceroy of Naples and the Grand Master of
Malta had entrusted the expedition. In attendance were his galley captain, Machin de Gorostiola — who was also captain of the infantry on board; the chaplain, Father Francisco Nistal, and the chief pilot, Gorgos, a native of Ragusa, who had sailed with Captain Alonso de Contreras and who knew those waters like the back of his hand. Representing the other galleys were our own Captain Urdemalas and the captain of the Virgen del Rosario, a pleasant, talkative Valencian called Alfonso Cervera. The Maltese galleys sent their respective officers too, a gentleman from Mallorca called Brother Fulco Muntaner from the larger of the galleys, the Cruz de Rodas, and a Frenchman, Brother Vivan Brodemont, from the San Juan Bautista.
When the meeting ended, and before they had even returned to their respective galleys, the joyful rumour was already doing the rounds that there was a richly laden Turkish vessel travelling from Rhodes to Constantinople, and that we were in a good position to board it before it entered the Dardanelles. This made us howl with pleasure, and it did one good to see and hear all the soldiers and sailors on every galley cheering and wishing each other good luck.
That same evening, before prayers were said, orders were issued to give the galleymen some Candian wine, salt cheese from Sicily and a few ounces of bacon, after which the whips cracked from prow to stern and the five galleys set off into the night with the slaves rowing as hard as they could, a pack of wolves scenting prey.
Dawn found me, as usual, in the embrasure on the starboard side towards the stern, watching the light gradually fill the horizon and observing the pilot as he performed the first rituals of his day. It was still very early, and the oarsmen were sleeping on their benches or in between them because we were now under full sail. The canvas and the rigging creaked gently as we were pushed along by a reasonable north-easter which, with the galley keeping close to the wind, was carrying us along on our desired course. Almost all the soldiers and sailors were asleep as well, while the cabin boys on watch, high up on masts and yards, scanned the horizon for sails or land, keeping a particularly close eye on the spot where the sun would come up — the dazzle could conceal an enemy presence. I had my blanket over my shoulders, for I slept with it wrapped about me, and if I had put it down on the deck, it would have walked away on its own, so full was it of bedbugs and lice. I was leaning on some netting, which was damp from the night air, admiring the pinks and oranges of the sky and wondering if one of the many sayings I had learned on board would hold true: red sky at night, sailors' delight; red sky in the morning, sailors take warning.
I glanced along the side of the galley. Captain Alatriste was already awake, and from afar I saw him shake out his blanket and fold it up. Then he leaned over the side and, using a bucket attached to a rope, scooped up some sea-water and washed his face with it — drinking-water being far too precious a commodity to use for washing — before rubbing his skin briskly with a rag so that the salt didn't stick to his skin. He took some hard-tack from his pouch, dipped it in a little of the wine he shared with Sebastian Copons — they never drank it all at once — and began eating, staring out to sea. When Copons, who was sleeping beside him, began to stir and raised his head, the Captain broke the hard-tack in two and gave him half. Copons chewed in silence, holding the biscuit in one hand and rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the other. When the Captain noticed that I was observing him from the stern, he looked away.
We had spoken little since Naples. The bitterness of our last conversation still rankled, and during our final days on" shore, we had scarcely seen each other because I was staying" at the military barracks in Monte Calvario, along with the Moor Gurriato, and I avoided the inns and taverns where the Captain might go to eat and drink. This, however, allowed me to get to know the Moor better. He was back on board the Mulata, not, this time, as an unpaid oarsman, but with a wage of four escudos a month. We shared the same food and billet, and had already had occasion to fight alongside each other, albeit briefly, during the capture of a samequin crewed by Albanians and Turks, which we came across within sight of the island of Milos. Since we were in the Argentera passage and therefore at risk of hitting a sandbank, we had boarded using a skiff. Not that the escapade had brought us much profit, for the ship was carrying only untanned hides; however, we returned with twelve men to put to the oars and with no losses on our side. Aware that Captain Alatriste was watching from a distance, I had been one of the first to jump aboard the samequin, followed by the Moor Gurriato, and I tried hard to distinguish myself in the eyes of everyone else, being the one to cut the sheets so that no one would tally them aft, and then fighting my way over to where the ship's master was standing, surrounded by the members of his crew, all of t
hem wielding pikes and scimitars — although not with much enthusiasm, it must be said, for they had flagged visibly when they saw us boarding. When I reached the master, I dealt him such a blow to the chest that he almost died on the spot, just as he was about to open his mouth and ask for quarter, or so it seemed to me. I thus returned to the galley having earned the good opinion of my comrades, feeling prouder than a peacock and glancing round to see if Captain Alatriste was watching.
'I think you should speak to him,' said the Moor Gurriato.
He had just woken up and was lying next to me, his beard unkempt and his skin greasy from sleep and the damp morning air.
'Why? To ask his forgiveness?'
'No,' he said, yawning. 'I just mean that you should speak to him.'
I gave an impudent laugh. 'If he has something to say, let him say it.'
The Moor Gurriato was meticulously cleaning between his toes.
'He's older than you and wiser. That is why you need him. He knows things that you and I don't. On my soul, it is true.'
I laughed again, as proud as a cockerel at five in the morning.
'That's where you're wrong. It's not like it was before.'
'What was it like then?'
'Like looking at God.'
He eyed me with his usual curiosity. This was one of his most appealing characteristics, the way he gave absolute attention even to the tiniest and apparently most insignificant of details. He appeared to find everything interesting, from the composition of a speck of dust to the complex workings of the human heart. He would ask a question, listen to the reply and then give an opinion, if required, seriously and frankly, and without any pretence at discretion, wit or bravery. He faced the good sense, stupidity or ignorance of other people with equanimity and possessed the infinite patience of someone determined to learn from everything and everyone. Life is written in each thing and each word, he said once, and the wise man tries to read and listen in silence. This was a strange philosophy to find in a man like him, who could neither read nor write, despite knowing Castilian, Turkish and the Arabic of the Moors, as well as the Mediterranean lingua franca. In fact, a few weeks in Naples had been enough for him to gain a reasonable grasp of Italian.
'And he no longer resembles God?'
The Moor was observing me with the same close attention. I made a vague gesture towards the sea. The first rays of sun touched our faces.
'I've discovered aspects of his character that I didn't see before, and there are others that I can no longer see.'
He shook his head almost sadly. He came and went between Captain Alatriste and me, acting as our one link on board, apart from our military duties. That rough, brusque Aragonese, Copons, lacked the necessary subtlety to ease the tension between us; his clumsy attempts at conciliation always hitting the wall of my youthful obstinacy. The Moor Gurriato was just as uneducated as Copons, but he was more perspicacious. He had taken my measure, and was patient. He moved between us discreetly, as if providing this contact was a way of repaying the strange debt that he believed he owed the Captain, the man he had met on that cavalcade on Uad Berruch. And he believed this all his life — until Nordlingen, that is.
'A man like him deserves respect,' he commented, as if concluding a long internal train of thought.
'So do I.'
'Elkhadar,' he said, with a shrug of the shoulders. 'Time will tell.'
I thumped the netting with my fist.
'I wasn't born yesterday, you know. I'm just as much a man and a gentleman as he is.'
He ran one hand over his smooth head, which he shaved each day with a razor and sea-water.
'Ah, of course ... a gentleman,' he murmured.
He was smiling. His dark, gentle, almost feminine eyes glittered.
'God blinds those who want to lose,' he added.
'The Devil take God and all the rest.'
'Sometimes we give to the Devil what he already has.'
And having said this, the Moor Gurriato got to his feet, picked up a handful of oakum and walked along the gangway to the ship's head, next to the ram, instead of doing as so many other men did and crouching between the timber knees at the sides of the ship. Because another of the Moor Gurriato's peculiarities was that he was as modest as the mother who bore him.
'We may be in luck,' Captain Urdemalas said. 'They say that the ship was still in Rhodes three days ago.'
Diego Alatriste took another sip of the wine that Captain Urdemalas had ordered to be served beneath the faded red-and-white striped awning at the stern. The wine was good — a white Malvasia rather like a San Martin de Valdeiglesias. Given Urdemalas' proverbial meanness — he was about as likely to spend a maravedi as the Pope was to give up his piscatory ring — this augured well. Between sips of wine, Alatriste discreetly observed the other men. Besides the pilot, a Greek named Braco, and the galleymaster, there were Ensign Labajos and the three soldiers placed in charge of the eighty-seven infantrymen on board: Sergeant Quemado, Corporal Conesa and Alatriste himself. Also present was the master gunner who had replaced the man injured in Lampedusa. He was a German who swore in Castilian and drank in Basque, but was as adept at handling moyens, sakers, culverins and swivel-guns as a cook was his pots.
'Apparently it's a large ship — a square-rigged mahone with no oars, but some artillery. The escort is a lantern galley manned by janizaries.'
'That will be a hard nut to crack,' said the galleymaster when he heard the word 'janizary'.
Captain Urdemalas scowled at him. He was in a bad mood because he had been suffering from appalling toothache all week and didn't dare place himself in the hands of the barber, or indeed in anyone else's.
'We've cracked harder nuts than that,' he snapped.
Ensign Labajos, who had already drunk his wine, wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. He was a young, thin, swarthy man from Malaga, and was good at his job.
'They're sure to put up a fight, and they'll battle like demons if they think they're about to lose their prize passenger.'
Sergeant Quemado burst out laughing. 'Is the woman really the Great Turk's wife? I thought he never let them out of the seraglio.'
'She's the favourite wife of the Pasha of Cyprus,' Urdemalas explained. 'His term there ends in a month's time, and he's sending her ahead with some of his money, servants, slaves and clothes.'
Quemado mimed applause. He was a tall, lanky man, whose real name was Sandino. The nickname Quemado — Burned — dated from a highly profitable attack on the island of Longos, which had involved sacking the town, setting fire to the Jewish quarter and acquiring a booty of almost two hundred slaves. A petard had scorched his face while he was trying to blow in the door to the castle, but despite his unfortunate appearance, or perhaps because of it, he was always the joker. He was also rather short-sighted, although he never wore glasses in public. 'When did you ever see Mars wearing spectacles?' he would quip.
'She's a tasty morsel then,' he said.
'If we can capture her, yes,' said Urdemalas, 'tasty enough to justify the whole campaign.'
'Where are they now?' asked Ensign Labajos.
'They had to stop off in Rhodes, but now they've set sail again, or are about to.'
'What's the plan?'
Urdemalas gestured to Braco the pilot, who unrolled a sea chart on the large plank that served as a table. The map showed the Aegean Islands, Anatolia and the coasts of Europe. It went as far up as the strait of Constantinople and as far down as Candia. Urdemalas ran his finger along the easternmost coast.
'Don Agustin Pimentel wants to capture them before they pass the strait of Chios, so as not to cause any trouble for the monks and the other Christian folk who live there. According to the chief pilot, Gorgos, the best place is between Nicalia and Samos. That's the most obvious route from Rhodes.'
'Those are treacherous waters,' said Braco. 'There are shallows and rocks.'
The Pirates of the Levant Page 19