The Pirates of the Levant (8 page)

After a while, I found myself mechanically murmuring the same words, without thinking, like someone singing along to a particularly catchy ballad. Then, when I realised what I was doing, I prayed with real devotion:
Et exspecto resurrectionem mortuorum et vitam venturi saeculi, amen.
At the time, I was still young enough to believe in such things, and a few other things besides.

'Forward for Santiago ... for Santiago and Spain!' The words were spoken in a howl, punctuated by a few sharp blasts on the bugle, while the men scrambled to their

feet and ran through the undergrowth, holding high the King's standard and flag. I stood up too and ran forwards, aware of shots being fired on the far side of the encampment, where the darkness was dotted with flashes of harquebus fire.

'Forward for Spain! Attack! Attack!'

It was awkward running along the sandy bed of the river, and my legs felt like lead when I reached the other side, where a hawthorn hedge protected the livestock. I tripped over a motionless body on the ground, ran a few steps further, only to scratch myself on the spiny branches. God's teeth! There was now the sound of harquebus fire on our side too, while the silhouettes of my comrades rushed like a torrent through the tents. I caught sudden glimpses of lit fires, of terrified figures who either fought or fled. To the shouting of Spaniards and
mogataces
, reinforced by the thundering hooves of our horsemen charging in from the other side, was added the cries of dozens of women and children, wrenched from sleep, who were now emerging from their tents, clinging to each other or running to their menfolk, also barely awake, but who, in trying to protect them, fought desperately and died. I saw Sebastian Copons and others hurl themselves among these people, cutting and slashing, and I followed suit, wielding my half-pike and losing it at my first encounter, when I plunged it into the half-naked body of a bearded Arab who emerged from a tent bearing a scimitar. He fell at my feet without uttering a sound, but I didn't have time to recover my pike, because just as I was trying to, another young Moor, even younger than me, came out of the same tent, in his nightshirt, and started lashing out at me with a dagger, so fiercely that if he had hit home, Christ and the Devil would have been well served, and the people of Onate would have had one fellow countryman less. I staggered backwards, drawing my sword — an excellent galley sword,

broad and short and bearing the mark of Toledo on its blade. Fighting back with more aplomb now, I managed to slice off half his nose with my first blow and the fingers of his hand with my second. He was already on the ground when I delivered a third and final blow, slitting his throat with a backward slash. I peered cautiously inside the tent and saw a huddle of women and children in one corner, screaming and shouting in their own language. I let the curtain fall, turned and went about my business.

It was nearly over. Diego Alatriste kicked away the Moor he had just killed, removed his sword from the man's body and looked around. The Arabs were barely resisting now, and most of the attackers were more concerned with plundering whatever they could find — almost as if they were Englishmen. He could still hear harquebus fire in the encampment, but the screams of rage, despair and death had given way to the groans of the wounded, the moans of prisoners, and the buzz of flies swarming above the pools of blood.

The soldiers and
mogataces
were rounding up, as if they were mere livestock, women, children, the old, and any men who had thrown down their arms. Others were collecting any objects of value and herding together the real livestock. The women — their children clinging to their skirts or clutched to their bosom — were screaming and striking their faces at the sight of the corpses of fathers, husbands, brothers and children; and some, overwhelmed by pain and rage, were trying to scratch the soldiers, who were obliged to beat them off. The men were clustered together in a separate group; bewildered, bruised, and terrified, they squatted in the dust, guarded by swords, pikes and harquebuses. Some — adults and older men who were trying somehow to preserve their dignity — were shoved around or slapped in the face by the victorious soldiers.

The order, as usual, was not to kill anyone who could bring in some money, but this was the soldiers' way of avenging the half-dozen or so comrades who had lost their lives in the assault.

This displeased Alatriste, who was of the view that while one could kill a man, one should not humiliate him, still less in front of his friends and family. That century, however like most centuries, was not particularly abundant in scruple Embarrassed, he looked across at the outskirts of the encampment. Among the hills, the soldiers on horseback were pursuing any Moors who had managed to escape and were hiding among the reedbeds and fig trees. The captives were led back, their hands tied to the tails of the horses.

Some of the plundered tents were on fire now, with all the furniture, pots, silver, carpets and clothes piled up outside. Sergeant Major Biscarrues, who was keeping an eye on everything, shouted to his men to look lively and get the booty together so that they could leave. Diego Alatriste saw him squint at the newly risen sun and then glance anxiously about him. It wasn't hard for Alatriste, a fellow soldier, to guess his thoughts. A column of tired Spaniards, taking with them a hundred or so livestock and more than two hundred captives, would be extremely vulnerable to attack by hostile Moors if they were not safe inside the walls of Oran by sunset.

Alatriste's throat was as dry as the sand and stone he walked upon. God's teeth, he thought, I can't even spit out the dust and blood that are making my tongue stick to my palate. He looked about him and met the friendly but fierce gaze of a red-bearded
mogataz
who was earnestly beheading a dead Arab. Closer to him, an old Moorish woman was kneeling down tending a badly wounded man, whose head rested in her lap. She had a wrinkled face, with blue tattoos on forehead and hands, and when Alatriste stopped in front of her, sword still in his hand, she looked up at him with blank eyes.

'Ma.
Water. Ma,' he said.

She didn't respond until he touched her shoulder with the point of his sword. Then she gestured indifferently towards a large tent and, ignoring everything else, continued to tend the wounded Moor who lay moaning on the ground. Alatriste headed for the tent, drew back the curtain and stepped inside.

As soon as he did so, he realised that he was going to have problems.

1 spotted Captain Alatriste in the distance, among all the plundering and the comings and goings of soldiers and prisoners, and I was glad to see that he was safe. I tried to call out to him, but he didn't hear me, so I headed in his direction, avoiding the burning tents, the heaps of clothing, the wounded and the dead. I saw him go inside a large, black tent, and I saw, too, that someone went in after him. I couldn't quite see who it was, but he looked like one of our Moors, a
mogataz.
Then a corporal stopped me and ordered me to keep watch over a group of Arabs while they were being tied up. This delayed me briefly, but, when I had finished, I continued towards the tent. I lifted the curtain, crouched down to go inside and was astonished by what I saw: in one corner, on an untidy pile of mats and rugs, lay a young Moorish woman, half-naked, whom the Captain was helping to get dressed. She had a bruise on her tear-stained face and was wailing like an animal in torment. At her feet lay a child of only a few months, waving its arms, and next to her was one of our soldiers, a Spaniard, his belt unbuckled, his breeches round his knees and his head blown apart. Another Spaniard, fully clothed but with his throat slit from ear to ear, lay face-up

near the entrance, blood gushing from his wound. In the few moments in which I was still able to think clearly, it occurred to me that the very same blood was staining the blade of the curved dagger that a surly, bearded
mogataz
had pressed to my throat as soon as I entered. All of these things — well, put yourself in my place, dear reader — drew from me an exclamation of surprise that made the Captain turn round.

'It's all right. He's like a son to me,' he said quickly. 'He won't talk.'

The
mogataz's
breath, which I could feel on my face, stopped for a moment as he studied me closely with bright, dark eyes edged with such thick eyelashes they could have been those of a woman. That, however, was the only delicate thing about his tanned, weather-beaten face; and his pointed reddish beard accentuated the fierce expression that froze my blood. He must have been about thirty or so, and he was of average build, but with powerful shoulders and arms. Apart from the usual lock of hair at the back, his head was shaven, and he wore a long scarf looped about his neck, silver earrings in each ear and, on his left cheekbone, a strange blue tattoo in the form of a cross. He duly removed the dagger from my throat and wiped it on his grey-striped burnous before putting it back in the leather scabbard at his waist.

What happened?' I asked the Captain.

He slowly got to his feet. The woman, filled with fear and shame, covered herself with a grey-brown veil. The
mogataz
said a few words to her in her own language — something like
barra barra
— and she, picking up her crying child and wrapping it in the same veil, walked lightly past us, head bowed, and left the tent.

'What happened,' said the Captain calmly, 'is that these two valiants and I had a disagreement over the meaning of the word "booty".'

He crouched down to pick up the pistol he had fired and stuck it in his belt. Then he looked at the
mogataz,
who was still standing in the entrance to the tent, and something like a smile appeared on his lips.

'Things weren't going too well for me when this Moor appeared and took my part.'

He was studying the
mogataz
intently, from top to toe, and he seemed to like what he saw.

'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.