The Pirates of the Levant (25 page)

'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.'

'Yes, but the chief pilot knows them well. He says that if the mahone is being sailed by people who know where the sandbanks are, then the natural route to follow would be between the chain of islands and the mainland. It's protected from the winds and safer.'

'Yes, that would be logical,' Braco agreed.

Diego Alatriste and Corporal Conesa — a plump, stocky fellow from Murcia — were studying the map with great interest. They didn't usually get a chance to see such documents, and as subalterns, they knew how unusual it was to be invited to such meetings. Alatriste was an old dog, though, and he could read between the lines. The ship they were planning to attack would be a major prize and Captain Urdemalas needed everyone to know that. This way, he could be sure that the troops would find out the facts and be eager to put their all into the enterprise. Being in the right place

at the right time and capturing the mahone would require them all to pull together, and soldiers and sailors who were aware of what was at stake would be more likely to obey.

'Do you think we can get there in time?' Ensign Labajos asked.

He showed his empty glass, in the hope that Urdemalas would summon his page to pour him some more wine.

Urdemalas pretended not to notice. 'The wind is in our favour,' he said, 'and, besides, we have the oarsmen. The Turkish mahone is a heavy sailing ship and will be travelling against the wind, and in calm weather the galley will have to tow her. The weather will turn cooler this evening, but we'll still have the wind in our favour. The chief pilot thinks we can catch up with them off Patmos or the Fournoi islands, and the other pilots and captains agree. Isn't that so, Braco?'

The Greek nodded as he rolled up the chart. Quemado wanted to know what the Knights of Malta thought about the matter.

'Those bastards don't give a damn,' said Captain Urdemalas, 'whether it's one mahone and one galley or fifty, whether they're carrying the Pasha of Cyprus's wife on board or the wife of Suleiman himself. The merest whiff of booty is enough to set their mouths watering. The more Turks, the bigger the profit.'

'What about the other captains?' Quemado asked.

'I don't know anything about the French captain. He's got knights who are on their first expedition with him, as well as soldiers from France, Italy, Spain and Germany. Brave men, as always. But I do know the captain of the
Cruz de Rodas.'

'Brother Fulco Muntaner,' said the galleymaster.

'The one who was at the battle of Cimbalo and at Syracuse?'

'The same.'

Some of those present raised their eyebrows, while others nodded. Even Alatriste had heard, through Alonso de Contreras, of this Spanish Knight of St John. At Cimbalo, after losing three of the Maltese galleys in a storm, Muntaner had dug himself in on an island along with his shipwrecked men, all defending themselves like tigers against the Moors of Bizerta who had disembarked en masse to capture them. Not that there was anything surprising about that, for not even the most optimistic Knight expected mercy from the Mohammedans. This partly explains why it was that, at the battle of Lepanto, when the Maltese flagship was finally recaptured — it had been attacked and boarded by a swarm of Turkish sailors — only three Knights were found alive, badly wounded, but surrounded by the corpses of three hundred of the enemy. Almost the same thing happened again in 1620, off Syracuse in Sicily, when the same Muntaner, by then in his sixtieth year, was one of only eighteen survivors on the Maltese flagship, after the bloody battle fought between four Maltese and six Berber galleys. The Knights of Malta, feared and hated by their enemies, were tough professional corsairs, and Brother Fulco Muntaner was among the very toughest. Since the five galleys had met in Fossa de San Giovanni, Alatriste had often seen him at the stern of the flagship,
Cruz de Rodas,
with his bald head, long grey beard and face disfigured by cuts and scars, and had heard him haranguing the men in thunderous tones in his own Mallorcan tongue.

The proverb proved to be correct: that evening there was rain and, that night, there were occasional gusts of the promised north-easterly wind and more rain. The sea was so rough that, despite the lanterns lit on the stern of each ship, all five galleys lost sight of each other. However, despite the weather, we soon covered the forty miles separating us from the island of Nicalia. The sailors had to keep a constant eye on the sails, while everyone else, oarsmen included, crouched on the deck, numb with cold, sheltering as best we could from the spray.

We proceeded thus until the wind turned to the south-east, and the following morning, which dawned peacefully, with the heavy rain moving off over the island's steep, rocky peaks, we found ourselves opposite Pope Point, where two of the ships in our convoy were waiting for us. The other two arrived safely a short time later.

Nicalia, which some call Ikaria — the island where Icarus fell into the sea — is a rugged place, and while many torrents rush down its rocks, there is no harbour. However, since both weather and sea were calm, we were able to go in close to land and happily fill casks, barrels and kegs with water — given the number of people on board a galley, it is in constant need of fresh supplies.

According to our reckonings, the mahone would be sailing into the north wind and, we thought, would still be somewhere en route from Rhodes. To confirm this, Agustin Pimentel ordered four galleys to cover the strait between Nicalia and Samos, while the fifth went south to garner more information. One Spanish ship would attract less attention than five galleys gathered together like birds of prey. Moreover, the Greeks who lived on those islands seemed no better than the Ottomans, for, having no schools, they were the most barbarous people in the world, cowed by the cruelty of the Mohammedans and quite capable of selling us to the Turks simply to gain favour with them.

The
Mulata
was chosen to be the scout, and so we set sail that night and by the dawn watch had reached the deep, sheltered harbour of Patmos, the best of the three or four good ports on the island, at the foot of the fortified Christian monastery that dominates the harbour from above. We spent the morning there, but the only people allowed ashore were Captain Urdemalas and the pilot Braco. As well as finding out further information, they negotiated with the monks the ransom of the Jews we had taken on board as oarsmen — at least that was the pretext for the visit — although, for some reason or other, an agreement was reached not to free them until later, when we would leave them on Nicalia.

And so I did not have a chance to set foot on the legendary island to which St John the Evangelist was exiled by the emperor Domitian and where he dictated the
Apocalypse
to his disciple Procoros. And speaking of books, I remember that Captain Alatriste spent the day sitting in one of the crossbow embrasures, reading the copy of
Dreams
sent to him by Don Francisco de Quevedo. It was a small octavo volume, which he usually carried in his pocket. That same day, when he left it lying on his pack in order to go to deal with some matter at the prow, I picked up the book and, glancing through it, found this passage marked:

Truth and Justice came down to Earth: the first, being naked, found it most uncomfortable, as did the second, being rigorous. They wandered about for a long time, until Truth, out of necessity, fell silent. Justice, at a loss what to do, roamed the earth, pleading with everyone; but seeing that no one took any notice of her and that everywhere her name was used to support tyrannies, she determined to flee back to Heaven ...

We soldiers and sailors spent part of that day resting, delousing each other and eating a meal of boiled chickpeas and a little salt cod — for it was a Friday — while the oarsmen, beneath the awning that protected the rowing benches, were given their usual ration of hard-tack. The sun was very strong, and the heat so intense that tar was dripping down from the rigging.

Gone midday, Captain Urdemalas and the pilot returned,  looking very cheerful, having dined well with the monks and imbibed wine made from honey and orange blossom — God curse them. Anyway, the Turkish mahone, they were told, had not yet passed through the strait, but had been seen, still with its galley escort, sailing towards the isle of Longos, struggling against the contrary wind, for it was a large and heavy vessel. And so, in less time than it takes to say 'knife', we had dismantled the awning, weighed anchor and set off, rowing hard to rejoin the other galleys.

For two days and nights, sailing with lanterns extinguished and eyes alert, we almost chewed our fingernails to the quick. The sea was leaden, with no wind to bring us that wretched mahone. Finally, a south-westerly breeze ruffled the surface of the water, and our patience was rewarded, for the order came to clear the decks and prepare ourselves for battle. The five galleys were skilfully deployed, being positioned almost, but not quite, out of sight of each other, and covering an area of more than twenty miles. A signal had been agreed to indicate when the prize was spotted. Behind us lay the island of Fournoi, on whose southernmost peak, from which one could see for leagues around, we had posted four men with orders to send up a smoke signal as soon as they spotted a sail. The island had a long corsair tradition, for its name, which means 'oven' or 'furnace', dated from the days when the Turk Cigala had the hard-tack for his galleys baked there. To the south, we had also posted a caique — manned by our people, but rowed by Greeks who had been pressed into service — as a reconnaissance vessel that would not arouse suspicion that the wolf was in the sheep pen. The unusual thing about the ambush was that, in order to get as close to the enemy as possible, and to avoid the mahone firing on us from a distance, we had made our ships look like Turkish galleys. We had shortened the mainmast, made the lateen yard seem stubbier and heavier, and lowered the topmast. Miguel de Cervantes, who knew a thing or two about corsairs and galleys, had written about this too:

In war there are a thousand ploys Full of tricks and lying noise: The thunder grumbles distantly, Yet lightning strikes us instantly.

This disguise was completed with the Turkish flags and pennants we carried for such occasions — as other ships would carry ours — and men wearing Ottoman clothes were placed in the most visible parts of each ship. Such tricks were part of the dangerous game that all nations played along those ancient shores, the theatre for this vast exercise in corsair chess and chance. For when there are eight or even ten cannon pointing at you, gaining time is of no small importance, even more so when they start firing and all you can do is row hard and grit your teeth until you're close enough to board and pay them back for it. Had England's encounter with the Armada in the English Channel been a frank confrontation between two infantries, as at Lepanto, that day would now be remembered quite differently.