The Pirates of the Levant

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  battle order, and astutely covering any escape route to the open sea. They had waited patiently all night, knowing that their prey was trapped. Whoever was in charge knew what they were doing.

  'The Maltese galley will go first,' Urdemalas told us. 'Muntaner insisted. He said that the statutes of his Order oblige him to do so.'

  'Well, rather them than us,' said the galleymaster, relieved.

  'It makes no difference. None of us will get off lightly.'

  The officers and subalterns on the Mulata exchanged glances. No one needed to say a word; their thoughts were written on their faces. Captain Urdemalas had merely confirmed what Diego Alatriste and the others already knew: there were two enemy galleys for every Christian galley, and two more besides, and there was no point in taking refuge on land, because we were in Turkish territory. There was nothing for it but to risk life and liberty. We were certain to end up either dead or captive, unless a miracle occurred — and it was up to us to make that miracle happen.

  'We'll have to be under oars at all times,' Urdemalas went on, 'unless those black clouds to the west bring us some wind, in which case, we'll have more of a chance. But we can't count on that.'

  'What's the plan, then?' Ensign Labajos asked.

  'Very simple. There is no other option. The Maltese galley will go first, the Caridad Negra second, and we'll bring up the rear.'

  'I don't like the idea of being last,' said Labajos.

  'It amounts to the same thing. I doubt any of us will get through because as soon as they see us move, the bastards will close in. Anyway, Muntaner is going first, which gives us some space to try our luck. We'll make as if we're heading straight at the enemy, then try to cut away and escape along

  their left flank, which seems to be their weaker point.'

  'Are we to help each other?' Sergeant Quemado asked. ,

  Urdemalas shook his head and, as he did so, raised a hand to his cheek, quietly cursing God and all the saints because his toothache was still tormenting him and had only been made worse by too many hours without sleep. Diego Alatriste knew what he was thinking. For Urdemalas, and for all of them, it had been a very long night, but a good one in comparison with what might lie ahead: either at the bottom of the sea or at the oars of some Turkish galley. Soon, that toothache would be the least of Captain Urdemalas' problems.

  'No one is to help anyone else,' Urdemalas replied. 'It's every man for himself, and the Devil take the hindmost.'

  'Unfortunately, we're the hindmost,' Sergeant Quemado remarked.

  Urdemalas shot him a scathing glance. 'It was just a figure of speech, damn it. If we don't help each other and row hard, there's a small chance that one of our ships might escape.'

  'Then the Maltese galley is done for,' Labajos commented coldly. 'If they're the first in line, the Turks will fall on them immediately.'

  Urdemalas pulled a face.

  'That's why they call themselves Knights and take their vows, and when they die, they go to Heaven. Things are less cut and dried for the rest of us, so we must tread carefully.'

  'That's what it says in the Gospels, sir,' Quemado said. 'I once saw a Flemish painting of hell, very life-like it was, too, and I swear on the King of Spades that I, for one, am in no hurry to weigh anchor.'

  This was the usual banter, thought Alatriste, what was expected of them. Everything was happening according to the rules, including that light, nonchalant air, even at the mouth of Hell itself. Any fears you had, you kept to yourself. Eight centuries of war against the Moors and one hundred and fifty years of making the rest of the world tremble had refined both language and manners: a Spanish soldier, like it or not, could not allow himself to be killed just anyhow, but in accordance with the expectations of both enemies and friends. Those gathered at the stern of the Mulata knew this, as did the other men. This was what they were paid to do, even if they never received that pay, and it was with these thoughts in mind that Alatriste was studying his fellow soldiers. At that moment, any one of them would have preferred to be in bed with a fever rather than fit and healthy on board that ship. Standing in groups, in the embrasures, in the corridors and in the central gangway, soldiers and sailors were watching their officers in silence, knowing how the cards would fall. Among the oarsmen, though, some were afraid and others joyful, imagining themselves already free, because for the captive chained to the bench by the enemy religion, every sail on the horizon meant hope.

  'How are we going to deploy the men?' Labajos asked.

  Urdemalas made a sawing motion with the edge of one hand on the palm of the other.

  'Our aim is to cut through their lines and repel all would- be boarders. And if we get through, I'll need two falconets, the two-pounders, at the stern. The chase might be a long one.'

  'Shall we give the men some food, just in case?'

  'Yes, but I want no ovens lit. Give them some raw garlic and wine to warm their stomachs.'

  'The galley-men will need something too,' said the galleymaster.

  Urdemalas leaned back against the stern, underneath the lantern. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked grimy and exhausted. A combination of toothache and

  uncertainty had drained the colour from his face. Alatriste didn't even bother to wonder if he too looked like that; even without the toothache, he knew that he did.

  'Check the shackles on all the forced men, and the manacles on the Turks and Moors. Give them a little of that arrack we got from the mahone, a measure per bench. That's the best encouragement we can give them today. But no concessions, eh? If anyone's caught slacking, we cut off his head, even if I'm the one who has to pay the King. Do I make myself clear, galleymaster?'

  'As clear as day. I'll tell the overseer.'

  'If you're giving the forced men drink,' commented Sergeant ; Quemado, with a grin on his face, 'they're either fucked or about to be.'

  Unusually, no one laughed. Urdemalas fixed the sergeant with a mirthless stare. 'As for the other men,' he said curtly, 'give them a sip of arrack as well as the garlic and wine. Then keep some wine to hand, but make it weak, mind.' At this point, he turned to the German gunner. 'As for you, sir, you will fire using langridge-shot and tinplate, from close to and at my orders. Otherwise, Ensign Labajos will be at the prow, Sergeant Quemado on the starboard side and Senor Alatriste on the port side.'

  'It would be a good idea to give the oarsmen as much protection as possible,' Alatriste said.

  Urdemalas gave him a surly look and held it for just a moment longer than necessary.

  'You're right,' he said at last. 'Pad the pavisades with whatever we have, sails included. If they kill a lot of our oarsmen, we're done for. Pilot, make sure the compass and all the instruments are well secured in the binnacle. And I'll need the two best helmsmen, the pilot and eight good musketeers by my side. Any questions?'

  'None, sir,' said Labajos, after a silence.

  'Needless to say, there's to be no attempt to board their ships. We'll concentrate on bombarding them with langridge, stone shot and harquebus and musket fire. And that's that. If we hang around, we're lost. And if we get through, then we'll have to row like madmen.'

  There were a few tense smiles.

  'God willing,' someone murmured.

  Urdemalas shrugged. 'And if He's not willing, then at least He'll know where to find us come Judgement Day.'

  'Let's just hope He puts the right pieces back together,' added Sergeant Quemado.

  'Amen,' muttered the galleymaster, crossing himself.

  And glancing at each other, everyone followed suit, including Alatriste.

  Anyone who claims never to have experienced fear is a liar, because you never know what might happen. And on that morning, facing the eight Turkish galleys blocking our exit to the open sea, in the prelude to a confrontation that is now described in reports and history books as the naval battle of Escanderlu or Cap Nero, I recognised the feeling. I had known it on other occasions: my stomach tightening to the point of nausea, cr
eating an unpleasant tingling in the groin. I had grown up a lot since my first experiences at Captain Alatriste's side, and for all my smugness and youthful arrogance, the two years that had passed since the Ruyter Mill, Breda and Terheyden had made me more sensible and more conscious of danger. What was about to happen was not an adventure to be undertaken with the flippancy of a boy; it was a grave event whose outcome was unknown, and which could end in death — not, after all, the worst of endings — but also in captivity or mutilation. I was sufficiently mature to understand that in a few hours' time I might find myself chained to the oars of a Turkish galley for the rest of my life — no one in Constantinople would be prepared to ransom a poor soldier from Onate — or else biting into a piece of leather as they amputated an arm or a leg. It was the idea of being mutilated that frightened me most, for there is nothing worse than having an eye missing or a wooden leg and finding oneself transformed into some kind of waxen image, condemned to endure others' pity and to begging for alms, especially when one is still in the full flower of youth. This, among other things, would not be the image Angelica de Alquezar would want to encounter if we were ever to see each other again. And I have to say that the prospect of such a meeting made my legs quake.

  These were my rather grim thoughts as, along with my comrades, I finished preparing the pavisade along the sides and prow of the Mulata with rolled-up sailcloth, palliasses, blankets, packs, rigging and whatever else we could put between us and the Turkish bullets and arrows that would soon fall on us like hail. Every man was thinking his private thoughts, but the truth is that we all put on a brave face. There were, at most, depending on the individual, a few tremulous hands, incoherent words, distracted stares, mumbled prayers or macabre jokes that met with uneasy laughter.

  Our three galleys were almost oar to oar, our prows facing the Turks, who were now about a cannon shot away, although no one fired a cannon to check this, for they and we knew that there would be ample opportunity to fire — and to better purpose — when we were nearer. When the moment came, everyone would try to be the first to fire, but only when we were as close as possible to the enemy. The silence on the enemy galleys was absolute, as it was on ours. The sea was as smooth as a sheet of lead, reflecting the black storm clouds that moved southwards over the coast of Anatolia, which lay behind and to each side. We were armed and ready, the match-cords lit, and all that was missing was the order to row towards our fate. I had been assigned to the port side of the boat where, duly provided with half-pikes, spears and pikes, we would have to repel any attempt by the Turks to board.

  The Moor Gurriato was beside me — I suspect on Captain Alatriste's orders. He seemed utterly calm, apparently oblivious to everything that was happening. Although he was as prepared to fight and die as everyone else, it was as if he were merely passing through, an indifferent witness to his own fate, despite the fact that, as a Moor, this would be a far from enviable one if he fell into Turkish hands. It would not be long before he was betrayed by some galley-slave or even by his own comrades; for the energy that makes men throw themselves into battle can turn to something quite contemptible when it's a matter of survival. Even more so in captivity, where so many strong spirits wavered, reneged or submitted in exchange for liberty, life or even a miserable piece of bread. We are, after all, only human, and not everyone is capable of facing difficulties with the same courage.

  'We will fight together,' the Moor Gurriato said to me. 'All the time.'

  That consoled me a little, although I knew perfectly well that, when you are fighting on the threshold of the next life, each man is fighting for himself, and there is no greater solitude than that. But he had said the right thing, and I was grateful for the friendly look that accompanied his words.

  'You're very far from your country,' I said.

  He smiled and shrugged. He was dressed in Spanish fashion, in breeches and espadrilles, but his chest was bare; he carried a curved dagger tucked in his belt, a half-sword at his waist and a boarding axe in his hand. He had never seemed so serene, or so fierce.

  'You and the Captain are my country,' he said.

  His words touched me, but I disguised my feelings as best I could, and said the first thing that came into my head: 'Still, there are better places to die.'

  He bowed his head, as if thinking.

  'There are as many deaths as there are people,' he replied. 'No one ever really expects his own death, although he may think he does. He merely accompanies it and remains at its disposal.'

  He stood for a moment, staring at the tar-smeared deck, then looked at me again. 'Your death is always with you, and mine is always with me. We each carry our own death on our backs.'

  I looked around for Captain Alatriste and finally spotted him at the prow end of the corridor, giving orders to the harquebusiers on the fighting platform. He had been put in command of the port side of the galley and had appointed Sebastian Copons as his adjutant. He seemed as cool and calm as ever, his hat down over his eyes, his thumbs hooked in the belt from which hung sword and dagger. He was wearing his old buff coat, which bore the marks of former battles, and was clearly ready once more to confront whatever fate might bring him, with no fuss, no bravado, but with the aplomb one would expect of such a man or of the man he was trying to be. There are as many deaths as there are people, the Moor Gurriato had said. I envied the Captain's death, when it came.

  I heard the Moor's soft voice beside me: 'One day, you might regret not having said goodbye to him.'

  I turned and came face to face with his intense, dark eyes.

  'God,' he continued, 'gives us a very brief light in between two long dark nights.'

  I studied the Moor for an instant: his shaven head, the silver earrings, the pointed beard, the cross tattooed on one cheekbone. I did so for as long as his smile lasted. Then, giving in to the impulse his words had placed in my heart, I walked down the corridor, avoiding the many comrades crowding it, and went over to the Captain. I said not a word, because I didn't know what I could say; I merely leaned against the fighting platform, looking across at the Turkish galleys. I was thinking about Angelica de Alquezar, about my mother and my little sisters sewing by the fire. I was thinking, too, about myself, when I first arrived in Madrid, sitting at the door of Caridad la Lebrij ana's inn one sunny winter's morning. I was thinking of the many men I could become, and who would perhaps remain there for ever, cut short, nothing but food for the fishes.

  Then I felt Captain Alatriste's hand on my shoulder.

  'Don't let them take you alive, son.'

  'I won't, I swear it,' I answered.

  I felt like crying, but not out of sorrow or fear. I was overwhelmed, rather, by a strange sense of melancholy. Far off, above the silence and stillness of the sea, a flash of lightning flared, so distant that we couldn't even hear the accompanying thunder. Then, as if that zigzag of light had been a signal, the drum sounded. At the stern of the Caridad Negra, next to the lantern and with a crucifix held up high, Brother Francisco Nistal raised his other hand and blessed us all. We bared our heads, knelt down and prayed. The chaplain's words came to us in short bursts: In nomine ... et filii ... Amen. As we knelt, the royal pennant was raised on the stern of the flagship, while on the galley of the Knights of Malta, the silver eight-pointed cross appeared, and on ours the white flag bearing the St Andrew's cross. Each flag was greeted with a blast on the bugle.

  'Shirts off!' the galleymaster ordered.

  Then we took our places and the galley began to row towards the Turks.

  The silent storm continued to rage in the distance. The glow of the lightning flashed across the grey horizon, illuminating the still waters. The galley was equally silent, apart from the sound of the oars in the sea — the rhythm as yet quite relaxed . The oarsmen were taking it in turns to row, slowly, so as to conserve their energy for the final stretch, and even the galleymaster refrained from using his whistle. We were quiet, too, our eyes fixed on the Turkish ships that bristled with weapons, ready for
battle. Halfway there, while we veered slightly off to the left, the Maltese galley began to overtake us on our right. We watched her forge ahead, sails furled, muskets, harquebuses and pikes sticking up above the pavisade, oars keeping to a precise rhythm. At the stern, where the awning had been taken down, stood its captain, Brother Fulco Muntaner, clearly visible with his long grey beard, white corslet, red over-tunic and white cross. Bareheaded and sword in hand, he was surrounded by his trusted comrades: Brother Juan de Manas from Aragon, son of the Count of Bolea; Brother Luciano Canfora from Italy, and the novice Knight Ghislain Barrois from Provence. As they passed us, almost brushing our oars with theirs, Captain Urdemalas took off his hat to them. 'Good luck!' he cried.