'I don't usually get involved in other people's business.'
'Nor do I, but I went into the tent and I saw that you were defending a Moorish woman.'
'Whether she was a Moor or not makes no difference tame. The men were an unsavoury pair, and arrogant and insolent to boot. The woman was the least of it.'
The mogataz clicked his tongue. tTidt. True, but you could have looked the other way, or even joined in the fun.'
'So could you. Killing a Spaniard is a sure way of getting a noose around your neck — if anyone ever found out.'
'They didn't ... fate.'
They fell silent again, but continued to look at each other, as if they were privately calculating which of them had incurred the greater debt: the Moor because the Captain had defended a woman of his race, or the Captain because the Moor had saved his life. Meanwhile, Copons and I were exchanging glances too, astonished by both the situation and the conversation.
'Saad,' murmured the Captain in the dog-Arabic spoken in
ports. He said the word thoughtfully, as if repeating the last thing the mogataz had said.
The latter smiled faintly and nodded. 'In my language we say elkhadar. Fate and destiny are the same thing.'
'Where are you from?'
The mogataz made a vague gesture. 'From around ... from the mountains.'
'Far away?'
lUah. Far away indeed, and very high up.'
'Is there something I can do for you?' asked the Captain.
The other man shrugged. He appeared to be considering the question.
'I'm an azuago,' he said at last, as if that explained everything. 'From the tribe of the Beni Barrani.'
'Well, you speak excellent Castilian.'
'My mother was born a zarumia, a Christian. She was from Cadiz. She was captured as a child and they sold her on the beach of Arzeo, an abandoned town by the sea, seven leagues to the east, on the road to Mostaganem. My grandfather bought her for my father.'
'That's an odd tattoo you have on your face — odd for a Moor, I mean.'
'It's an old story. We azuagos are descended from Christians, from the time when the Goths were still here, and for us it's a matter of isbah, of honour. That's why my grandfather wanted a Spanish wife for my father.'
'And is that why you fight with us against other Moors?'
The mogataz shrugged stoically. 'Elkhadar. Fate.'
Having said that, he fell silent for a moment and stroked his beard. Then I thought I saw him smile again, his gaze abstracted.
'Beni Barrani means son of a foreigner, you see. We're a tribe of men who have no homeland.'
******
And that is how, after the cavalcade of Uad Berruch in the year 1627, Captain Alatriste and I met the mercenary Aixa Ben Gurriat, known among the Spaniards in Oran as the Moor Gurriato, a remarkable individual, and this is not the last time his name will be mentioned. For, hard though it is to believe, that night was the start of a seven-year friendship, the seven years that separated that day in Oran and bloody day in September 1634, when the Moor Gurriato, the Captain and myself, along with many other comrades, fough shoulder to shoulder on a wretched hill at Nordlingen. After sharing many journeys, dangers and adventures, and while the Idiaquez regiment withstood fifteen charges by the Swedes in six hours without giving an inch, the Moor Gurriato would die before our eyes, like a good Spanish infantryman, defending a religion and a country that were not his own assuming he ever had either. He fell, at last, like so many; for an ungrateful, miserly Spain that gave him nothing in return, but which, for reasons known only to himself, Aixa Ben Gurriat, from the tribe of the azuagos Beni Barrani, had, resolved to serve to the death with the unshakeable loyalty of a faithful murderous wolf. And he did so in a most unusual way — by choosing Captain Alatriste as his comrade.
Two days later, when the Mulata left the Barbary Coast and set off north north-west, in the direction of Cartagena, Diego Alatriste had plenty of opportunity to observe the Moor Gurriato, because the latter was rowing in the fifth bench on the starboard side, next to the stroke. He did not have to wear chains, being what was called a buena boya, an expression taken from the Italian buonavoglia and applied to volunteer crew members. They were usually either the dregs of the ports or desperate men on the run willing to serve for a
wage — the Turks called them morlacos or jackals. They sought refuge on a galley much as, on land, others might in a church. This was how they had managed to get the Moor on board, since he was determined to accompany Diego Alatriste and try his fortune with him. Once the Captain had sorted out the problem of Sebastian Copons' licence — Sergeant Major Biscarrues had been satisfied with five hundred ducats plus Copons' back pay — he still had some escudos in his pocket, and it would not have been hard to grease a few palms to simplify matters. This, however, proved unnecessary. The Moor had his own money — although where he had got it from he did not say. Unrolling a kerchief that he wore beneath his sash, he took out a few silver coins which, despite being minted in Algiers, Fez and Tlemcen, convinced the galleymaster and the overseer to take him on board, once the usual formalities had been gone through, namely a swift act of baptism, to which no one objected even though it was as false as a Judas kiss. That was enough for his name — Gurriato de Oran, they called him — to be written in the galleymaster's book, along with a wage of eleven reales a month. It was thus established that, from then on, the mogataz, despite being a new convert and a galleyman, was a good Catholic and a faithful volunteer in the King of Spain's army, a situation to which Gurriato accommodated himself as best he could. Ever shrewd and prudent, he immediately adapted his appearance to suit his new circumstances by shaving off his warrior lock — leaving his head as smooth as that of any galley-slave — and replacing rexa, sandals, kaftan and baggy trousers with breeches, shirt, cap and red doublet. All that remained of his former outfit was his dagger, stuck in his sash, and the grey-striped burnous, in which he slept or wrapped about himself in bad weather or when, like now, a favourable wind meant that he did not have to row. As for
the tattoo on his face and his silver earrings, he was not only one to wear such adornments.
'He's a strange one,' commented Sebastian Copons.
He was sitting in the shade of the trinquet-sail, overjoyed to have left Oran behind him. At his back, the mast supporting the lateen yard and its vast canvas sail creaked in the easterly wind with the movement of the ship.
'No stranger than you or me,' replied Alatriste.
He had spent all day observing the mogataz, trying to the measure of the man. From where we sat, he seemed barely different from the forced men, slaves and convicts who had no choice but to row with shackles on ankles manacles on wrists. There were few who rowed out of necessity or choice, barely half a dozen among the hundred rowers on the Mulata. To these one had to add the forced volunteers; this contradiction in terms could be explained by the very Spanish fact that — as with the soldiers in Oran and Melilla - the lack of manpower on the King's galleys meant that some galley-slaves who had completed- their sentences were not allowed to leave, but were kept on and paid the same wage as a free man. In theory, they would only continue to do so until others came to take their place but, since this rarely happened quickly, there were cases of former galley-slaves completing sentences of two, five and even eight years on the galley — ten years was virtually a death sentence and few survived — only to find themselves obliged to stay on for a few more months or even years.
'Look,' said Copons. 'He doesn't budge when the other, Muslims pray, as if he really isn't one of them.'
Given the favourable wind, the oars were stowed and there was no need to row, so both forced men and volunteers were idle. The former were lying down on their benches, or else doing their business over the side of the boat or in the latrines
in the prow, or de-lousing each other, darning their clothes or performing various tasks for sailors or soldiers. Certain trusted slaves, freed from their shackles, were all
owed to come and go on the galley, washing clothes in sea-water or helping the cook prepare the beans for the stew that was steaming on the stove to port of the central gangway, between the mainmast and the supports for the awning. Two dozen or so of the slaves — Turks and Moors — were reciting one of their five daily prayers at their benches, facing east, kneeling, standing up and then prostrating themselves. La, ilah-la ua Muhamad rasul Ala they chorused: there is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is His prophet. The soldiers and sailors did nothing to prevent this. Equally, the Muslim galley-slaves took no offence when a sail appeared on the horizon or the wind changed and orders were given to take up their oars, the galleymaster's whip interrupting their prayers and returning them to their rowing and the rhythmic clink of chains. Everyone on the galley knew the rules of the game.
'He isn't one of them,' said Alatriste. 'I think, as he says, he doesn't belong anywhere.'
'And what about that story he told us about how his tribe used to be Christians?'
'It's possible. You've seen the cross on his face. And last night he was telling me about a bronze bell that they kept hidden in a cave. The Moors don't have bells. It's true that in the time of the Goths, when the Saracens arrived, there were people who refused to convert and took refuge in the mountains. It may be that the religion was lost over the centuries, but other things remained. Traditions, memories. ... And he does have a gingerish beard.'
'That could be from his Christian mother.'
'It could. But look at him; he obviously doesn't feel that he's a Moor.'
'Nor a Christian, damn it.'
'Oh, come now, Sebastian. How often have you been to mass in the last twenty years?'
'As little as possible,' Copons admitted.
'And how many of the Church's commandments have you broken since you've been a soldier?'
Copons gravely counted them off on his fingers.
'All of them,' he concluded sombrely.
'And does that stop you being a good soldier to your King?'
'Of course not.'
'Well, then.'
Diego Alatriste continued studying the Moor Gurriato, who was sitting with his feet dangling over the side of the galley, contemplating the sea. This, apparently, was the first time the Moor had been on a ship, and yet despite the swell that had been buffeting them ever since they left behind the cross of Mazalquivir, his stomach had remained steady, which could not be said of some of the other men. The trick, it seemed, was to place some saffron paper over the heart.
'He's certainly not one to complain,' said Alatriste. 'And he adapts well too.'
Copons grunted. 'You're telling me. I just vomited up some bile myself.' He gave a crooked smile. 'I obviously didn't want to take that with me from Oran.'
Alatriste nodded. Years before, he had found it difficult to adjust to the harsh galley life: the lack of space and privacy, the worm- and mouse-eaten, hard-as-iron ship's biscuits, the muddy, brackish water, the cries of the sailors and the smell of the galley-men, the itch and discomfort of clothes washed in salt water, the restless sleep on a hard board with a shield as pillow, one's body always exposed to the sun, the heat, the rain and the damp, cold nights at sea, which could leave you with either congestion or deafness. Not to mention the sickness
when there was bad weather, the wild storms and the dangers of battle, fighting on fragile boards that shifted beneath your feet and threatened to throw you into the sea at any moment. And all of this in the company of galley-men, hardly the noblest of brotherhoods: slaves, heretics, forgers, criminals condemned to the lash, bearers of false witness, renegades, tricksters, perjurers, ruffians, highwaymen, swordsmen, adulterers, blasphemers, murderers and thieves, who would never pass up the chance to throw dice or shuffle a greasy pack of cards. Not that the soldiers and sailors were any better, for whenever they went on land — in Oran, they'd had to hang a man to teach the others a lesson — there wasn't a chicken run they didn't plunder, an orchard they didn't pick clean, wine they didn't filch, food or clothes they didn't steal, a woman they didn't enjoy, nor a peasant they didn't abuse or kill. For, as the saying goes: Please God, leave the galley to some other poor sod.
'Do you really think he'll make a soldier?'
Copons was still looking at the Moor, as was Alatriste. The latter shrugged.
'That's up to him. For the moment, he's seeing a bit of the world, which is what he wanted.'
Copons gestured scornfully in the direction of the rowing chamber and then tapped his nose. Given the stench from all that humanity crammed together, among coils of rope and bundles of clothes, not to mention the stink from the bilge, it would have been hard to breathe were it not for the wind filling the sails.
'I think "seeing the world" might be a slight exaggeration, Diego.'
'Time will tell.'
Copons was leaning on the gunwale, clearly suspicious.
'Why have we brought him with us?' he asked at last.
Alatriste shrugged. 'No one brought him. He's free to go wherever he likes.'
'But don't you find it odd that he should have chosen us as his comrades, for no apparent reason.'
'Hardly for no reason. And you don't choose your comrades, they choose you.'
He continued looking at the mogataz for a while longer then pulled a face.
'Besides,' he added thoughtfully, 'it's still a little early be calling him our comrade.'
Copons considered these words, then grunted again.
'Do you know what I think, Sebastian?' said Alatriste after a pause.
'No, damn it, I don't. I never know what you're thinking'
'I think something in you has changed. You talk more than you used to.'
'Really?'
'Yes, really.'
'It must be Oran. I spent too long there.'
'Possibly.'
Copons frowned, then removed the kerchief he wore round his head and wiped the sweat from his neck and face.
'And is that good or bad?' he asked.
'I'm not sure. It's different.' 'Ah.'
Copons was scrutinising his kerchief as if it held the answer to some complicated question.
'I must be getting old, I suppose,' he muttered at last. 'It's age, Diego. You saw Fermm Malacalza. Remember what he used to be like — before?'
'Yes, of course. I suppose his pack grew too heavy for him. That's what it must be.'
'Yes.'
*******
I was at the other end of the ship, near the awning, watching
the pilot comparing quadrant and compass. At seventeen, I was a bright, curious youth, interested in acquiring all kinds
of knowledge. I retained that curiosity for most of my life and later it helped me make the most of certain strokes of good fortune. As well as the art of navigation, of which I gained a useful if rudimentary grasp while on board ship, I learned a lot of other things in that closed world: everything from finding out how the barber tended wounds — they didn't heal as quickly at sea, what with the damp air and the salt - to a study of the dangerous varieties of humankind created by God or the Devil. I began these studies in Madrid as a mere child, continued them in Flanders as a schoolboy, and completed them on the King's galleys as a graduate, where I encountered the kind of men who might well say, like the galley-slave in these lines written by Don Francisco de Quevedo:
I'm a scholar in a sardine school, And good for nothing but to row; From prison did I graduate, that university most low.
From a distance, I contemplated the Moor Gurriato sitting impassively on the side of the ship, staring at the sea, and Captain Alatriste and Copons, who were still talking beneath the trinquet-sail at the far end of the gangway. I should say that I was still very shocked by our visit to Fermin Malacalza. He was not, of course, the first veteran I had encountered, but it had given me much to think about, seeing his wretched existence in Oran, poor and invalided out of the army after a lifetime of service, with a family to bring up and no hope
that his luck would
change. For Fermin, the only future would be to rot like meat in the sun or be taken captive along with his family if the Moors ever seized the town. And depending upon one's profession, thinking is not always the most comfortable of pastimes. When I was younger, I had often recited these lines by Juan Bautista de Vivar, which pleased me greatly:
A soldier's time, so full of strife, Of war and weapons, fire and blood, May yet still teach us — by all that's good — To make the best we can of life.
Sometimes, when I would recite them to the Captain, I would catch an ironic smirk on his face; not that he ever said anything, for he was of the view that no one learns from being told. You must remember that when I was in Oudkerk and Breda, I was still very green, a young lad eager for novelty. What, for others, symbolised tragedy and life at its cruellest was to me a fascinating experience, part game and part adventure. Like so many Spaniards, I was accustomed to enduring miseries from the cradle up. At seventeen, however, more developed and better educated, and with my wits sharper, certain disquieting questions would slip into my head like a good dagger through the gaps in a corslet. The Captain's ironic smirk was beginning to make sense, the proof being that, after visiting Malacalza, I never again recited those verses. I was old enough and intelligent enough to recognise the ghost of my own father in that shadow of a man, and, sooner or later, in Captain Alatriste, Copons and myself. None of this changed my intentions. I still wanted to be a soldier, but the fact is that, after Oran, I wondered if it would not be wiser to think of the military life as a means rather than an end; as a useful way of confronting — sustained by the rigour of discipline, a set of rules — a hostile world I did not know well, but which I sensed would require everything that the exercise of arms could teach me. And by Christ's blood, I was right. When it came to facing the hard times that came later, both for poor, unfortunate Spain and for myself, as regards loves, absences, losses and grief, I was glad to be able to draw on all that experience.