Read Online The Pirates of the Levant by Arturo Pérez-Reverte - Free Book Online Page A

said, 'before they can even say knife.'
Sergeant Major Biscarrues was from Aragon; he had seen long service as a soldier and had the confidence of the governor of Oran. He was a typical denizen of those North African towns: as hard as nails, his tanned skin parched and lined by the sun, the dust and by a life spent fighting, first in Flanders and latterly in Africa — with the sea at his back, the King in far-off Spain, God preoccupied with other matters, and the Moors only a sword's length away. He commanded a troop of soldiers whose one hope was to win some booty, and he carried out his job with due rigour, for these men of his were dangerous, potential deserters, fodder for the gallows and the galleys, and as ready to mutiny as they were to kill each other. He was, in short, a cruel but approachable bastard, and no more venal than most. That, at least, was how Sebastian Copons had described Biscarrues before we met himon that first evening.
The meeting had taken place in a small barracks in kasbah, where we found him bent over a map spread out the table, each of the map's four corners weighted down, respectively, by a jug of wine, a candlestick, a dagger and a small pistol. With him were two other men: a tall Moor with a white cloak over his shoulders, and a thin, dark individual dressed in Spanish fashion, clean-shaven and with a prominent nose.
'With your permission, Sergeant Major, may I introduce my friend Diego Alatriste, a fellow veteran of Flanders no deployed on the galleys in Naples. Diego, this is Don Lorer Biscarrues. These two men are Mustafa Chauni, the chief our mogataces, and Aron Cansino, our interpreter.'
'Flanders, eh?' The sergeant major eyed Alatriste curiously. 'Amiens? Ostend?'
'Both.'
'A lot of rain has fallen since then. At least in Flanders, those damned heretics. There hasn't been a drop here f months.'
They chatted for a while, discussing comrades they had ' common, both alive and dead. Finally, Copons explained present situation and obtained the sergeant major's permission for us to join the cavalcade, while Alatriste studied both him and the other two men. The mogataz was an Ulad-Gale whose tribe had served Spain for three generations. In appearance he was typical of such men: grey-bearded and swarthy complexioned; he wore slippers, a curved dagger at his waist, and his head was entirely shaved apart from the small tuft that some Moors left so that, if their head was cut off  in battle, an enemy would not have to stick his fingers in the decapitated head's mouth or eyes in order to carry it off as a trophy. He led the harka of one hundred and fifty warriors chosen from among his tribe or family — which, in those parts, amounted to the same thing. They lived with their wives and children in the village of Ifre and nearby encampments. As long as those men were assured of pay and booty, they were prepared to fight under the St Andrew's cross with a courage and loyalty one would like to have seen in many subjects of the Catholic King.
    As for the other man, it came as no surprise to Alatriste that a Jew should act as interpreter in the town, for although the Jews had been expelled from Spain, their presence was tolerated in the Spanish enclaves in North Africa for reasons to do with commerce, money and their mastery of the Arabic language. As he found out later, among the twenty or so families living in the Jewish quarter, the Cansinos had been trusted interpreters since the middle of the last century, and even though they observed Mosaic law — Oran was alone in having a synagogue — they had always shown absolute competence as well as loyalty to the King. This was why the various governors of the town had honoured and rewarded them, allowing the profession to pass from father to son. The translators combined their linguistic skills with a little espionage, for all the Israelite communities in Barbary were in regular communication.
    The other reason why the Oran Jews were tolerated was their