Cervantes Street (11 page)

One of our men caught a virulent fever, and he urinated and defecated blood. I remembered Father saying: “Song and play will chase sorrows away.” To make his last hours more pleasing, Rodrigo and I chanted patriotic songs we had sung before going to battle against the Turks. The man had been moaning in agony, but as we sang to him he became quiet and listened attentively, and the grimace of pain on his face became a faint smile. Our singing was not enough to snatch him from the claws of death, but for a moment made him forget he was dying.

Our captors made no effort to remove the rotting man. His belly kept distending, until one night his stomach burst, making a deafening explosion, and those close to the corpse were covered with decomposing organs. Then the body caught aflame. The great commotion awoke the oarsmen who started to scream and rattle their chains. By the time the pirates came down, the man’s body resembled a twisted branch that had burned until it turned to coal.

In the aftermath, many of us woke up from nightmares screaming and shaking; some men began to choke their neighbors, mistaking them for pirates; others started to talk like children and called out to their mothers. Another man screamed that we were in hell paying for our sins. Another one cried, “Strike me dead, Lord! If You have any compassion for this sinner, kill me now! Don’t let me live another day!”

Rodrigo proposed: “Why don’t we write a song? Just think of some words and I’ll compose the melody.” Though the buccaneers had confiscated his vihuela, we passed hours composing it. One night, as our ship was tossed in a tempest so violent that we began thinking in anguish that we would sink in chains to the bottom of the Mediterranean, Rodrigo and I began to sing our song:

In the middle of the sea

the hungry, water-heavy sea

with the eyes of desire

we captives gaze

in the direction of Spain.

The waves rock

the ship’s human cargo.

We cry as we sing:

How dear you are, sweet Spain.

Luck has abandoned us;

our bodies are in chains;

our souls are in grave danger.

Cascades of tears fall from the sky

As we are taken to a land

of warlocks and black magic.

How dear you are, sweet Spain.

A few men requested an encore. By the third time, some had memorized the words and we sang together forgetting about the angry sea. Singing our song whose words we had strung together as if to prove we were alive, I felt a taste of freedom.

* * *

It was dawn. Behind a veil of fog there emerged a shape resembling a gigantic beehive rising from the base of a verdant mountain. White buildings amassed atop each other—it could only be the port of Algiers. Remaining quiet, in case it was a dream, I shook my head and rubbed my eyes as the image of that city rose like the Tower of Babel, and then disappeared behind the fog. But the snoring, farting men, and the excrement we were covered in, were real enough. As the minutes passed, and the sky lightened, I saw clearly the breakwater that had been built as a barrier to make Algiers impregnable.

I nudged Rodrigo and said, “We’re here.” One of the men heard me, and soon all of them were awake, feverish with excitement and dread. Some of the men wept, sensing that our arrival there signaled merely the continuation of their torment. But I knew my chances of survival would be greater on land than in that hellish crawl space.

It was morning by the time the infamous port of Algiers loomed before us. The closer we got to land, the louder I heard droning drums punctuated by jubilant trumpets. The galleons carrying us entered the harbor, firing volleys at the sea behind them; in response, a deafening rumble sounded from within the walls of the city.

Once the ships had been secured, we were herded to the deck where silence settled over our group. I had been crouching for so long that I walked with bent knees throbbing as if I had nails hammered into my kneecaps. On the other hand, the fresh air and the scorching African sun on my damp, moldy flesh felt invigorating.

Our women and children had already disembarked and were waiting on the quay. Their husbands and fathers breathed with relief to see them, accompanied by their chambermaids and duennas. The women stood in a tight circle clutching their Rosaries, praying, looking with silent longing at their husbands and then at heaven imploringly. The mothers embraced their children and cradled their infants. Young women seemed to have grown wrinkles in captivity; the hair of other women had turned white. They would be put to work as maids and companions of rich Turkish and Moorish women. We all knew that if the ruler of Algiers, or any important Algerian, took a fancy to one of them, she would become part of his harem. How many of them had been defiled by the corsairs, as was the custom?

Arnaut Mamí’s men busied themselves unloading the ships’ loot, pulling down the sails, and rolling them up lengthwise. The oars were brought to the deck and then transported to a storage building nearby, along with the ballast. Eager to set foot on land and enter their city, the boatswains cracked their whips to make the men work faster. Yet all this activity could not distract me from the fact that we were now captives in the slave capital of North Africa.

We were ordered to remove our putrid clothes and crouch together on the deck. My rags adhered to me like a leprous skin. The corsairs hauled buckets of water from the sea and doused us, throwing squares of black soap at us, so that we could begin to wash off the grime which clung to our bodies like a dry, tough hide. Our scabby skin gave off a foul odor. When we were deemed sufficiently clean, we were instructed to soap and rub our faces and heads until they were lathered. Wielding sharp, gleaming blades, the corsairs shaved our heads and facial hair. Again we were drenched with buckets of water until we had washed away all vestiges of foam. I barely recognized the hairless and naked young man next to me as Rodrigo. By the time the corsairs put iron rings around my ankles, I already felt like a slave.

Buckets of drinking water and cups were distributed to us for the first time in days, as well as pieces of puffy and dry Algerian bread. We put our teeth to work, chewing without dignity, fighting for crumbs. Water and bread had never tasted better. It felt good to be clean and with a full stomach. Rodrigo and I sat next to each other in silence. As long as he was in my proximity, I was hopeful. I had to be strong and brave, to provide him a good example.

We were left in the sun for what seemed like hours. Our bodies dried, and our faces took on color—we no longer looked as if we were made of yellow wax. The sun’s rays returned us to a human state.

“Now that we look presentable, they’re ready to auction us off,” a man near me commented.

“My children, remember we belong to God and not to any man,” Father Gabriel, a young priest in our group, reminded us. Then one by one we approached him and kneeled at his feet. “Go with God, my child,” he said to each of us as he made the sign of the cross on our foreheads.

The men hugged each other in farewell, whispering words of encouragement, as we waited for the ordeal to begin. It had already been my experience that when fortune turned her back on me, it would be awhile before she smiled again.

We were ordered off the ship, walked down a long wooden plank, and assembled on the quay. Algerian corsairs pointing long, sharp lances stood between us and the women and children.

Suddenly we were startled by a din that sounded like hundreds of iron hammers tapping the street. The viceroy of Algiers, Hassan Pasha, a Sardinian renegade sent by the Grand Turk to rule that den of thieves and murderers, was arriving with his attendants to have first choice of the new crop of captives.

A squadron of showily attired warriors entered first through the doors of the city. They were the infamous Albanian Janissaries I’d seen portrayed in paintings and picturebooks. Just the mention of the word
Janissary
struck terror in the hearts of Europeans. It was well known that they were paid according to the number of Christian scalps they presented to their captains after battle. When they killed scores of the enemy, ears or tongues were taken as proof. If the slaughter had been greater, index fingers would be accepted instead.

As the Janissaries entered, I felt as if a noose had tightened around my neck. Even our captors looked at them in awe. Their blue eyes resembled smooth, dull pieces of glass that had been in the ocean for a long time and then washed ashore. Their eyes caught no light, as if they belonged to soulless creatures. A chill shot down my spine.

The Janissaries carried harquebuses and wore long daggers. A horn shape, wrapped in shiny green cloth, extended from one side of their white turbans. From the tips of the horns drooped white and black ostrich plumes, which nodded as they marched in. The Janissaries’ red leather shoes ended in a curled tip.

Behind the Janissaries marched Hassan Pasha’s infantry, wearing long-sleeved blue robes that fell all the way to their ankles, and over them red vests open at the chest. These men projected the strength of monumental beasts. Their arrogant strut, which created an infernal metallic clatter with the heels of their shoes, was mesmerizing. For the rest of my captivity in Algiers, I feared that sound more than any other. Once a captive heard it, it was time to run, hide, cower, jump over a wall, try to become inconspicuous, wish you could disappear with a puff.

A pageant of gold-haired boys, dressed in rich Turkish costumes, marched behind the soldiers. They played drums, trumpets, flutes, and cymbals. Their music was funereal, as if meant to put dread in people’s hearts, and their faces expressionless.

Behind the boys entered the cavalry, riding graceful white and black Arabian horses with bushy, perfectly groomed tails and bearing headdresses made of colorful plumes that fanned out in the manner of a peacock. Finally, there came Berber warriors on camels wearing dark-blue robes and headscarves that covered their faces, except for their midnight-colored eyes, which were rimmed by thick black lashes. These were the descendants of the Berber tribes that had invaded and conquered Andalusia centuries ago.

Neither the pope’s processions that I had seen in the Vatican, nor those of the king of Spain when he paraded through the streets of Madrid on special occasions, could match such a vision of luxury, color, and might.

Hassan Pasha, beylerbey of the Grand Turk, viceroy of the province of Algiers, made his entrance seated on red cushions, on a platform that was carried by giant, barefoot Nubian slaves dressed in loincloths that barely covered their private parts. Their smooth skin was so lustrous they did not need ornaments to make them beautiful. Hassan Pasha’s huge turban of crimson and deep blue was shaped like a full moon; from the middle of it projected a blue conical cap. He was draped in a cherry-colored robe that gleamed in the burning North African sun; a short animal wrap—copper-russet like the fur of a red fox—covered his shoulders. His full-length beard matched the color of the fur. He was massive, as if made of granite. His arched eyebrows and long, beaked nose gave him the look of a hawk ready to strike—and crack open—the skull of his prey.

With the help of a Nubian page he stood up and stepped off the platform, exuding immense power combined with unfathomable corruption and cruelty. The corsairs dropped to their knees, and placed their hands and foreheads on the ground. Arnaut Mamí was the first to raise his head. With a barely detectable nod, the beylerbey beckoned him to approach. Mamí advanced, taking small steps and bowing low. As he kneeled in front of Hassan Pasha, he took the hem of the beylerbey’s robe, kissed it, and cried, “Praise be to Mohammed!”

The beylerbey inspected the boys first, but showed no interest in the crop offered to him. From the cadre that accompanied his regiment, I deduced that he was already well stocked with European lads. Quickly he moved to the women, and reserved for himself the most beautiful and distinguished-looking señoritas and their duennas.

As the auction of the men began, Mamí said to Hassan Pasha, pointing at me, “The cripple is mine, Your Highness.” When the pasha saw my deformed hand, he flicked his own hand as if to make me vanish. I was pushed to one side of my group of compatriots and ordered to stand as close as I could to the women and children while still remaining chained to the other men. I felt then a pain more acute than that of the wounds I had received at Lepanto. Fear, disgust, and boiling anger overtook me. I swore I would do my best to someday hurt that walking incarnation of the devil.

The almighty pasha took more time choosing the men. First he singled out the strongest looking. Fortunately Rodrigo was of slender build—like all the Cervantes men. Then he engaged Arnaut Mamí in conversation, asking him to list the qualities and skills of the rest of the captives. Hassan Pasha claimed the two surgeons who were traveling aboard
El Sol
, as well as the carpenters, blacksmiths, and cooks. It was heartbreaking to see the desolation on the faces of these men, who knew that the pitiless ruler would value their skills so much they would die as slaves.

When Pasha finished his selection, he spoke in Spanish to the men who were now his property: “Listen well, Christians: as of this moment you’re part of my army. From now on, if you work hard and don’t try to escape, I will reward you. And if you convert to Islam,” he paused so that the importance of his words would register on all present, “I swear by the name of Allah, I will give you your freedom.”

The rest of the men the viceroy had discarded were ordered to stand aside. They would be auctioned last, to rich people who needed house servants, gardeners, and teachers.

The beylerbey returned to his cushion, sheltered from the sun under a parasol of white ostrich plumes held by an African colossus. The auction of the remaining captives began. Hassan Pasha presided over the scene with a stony expression and sleepy eyes.

The Spanish and Italian children traveling with their parents, and the cabin boys, were sold first. A handful of men clothed in luxurious garments approached the innocents. We had all heard about the Turkish sodomites, who were the greatest fear of all parents in Christendom. These merchants of innocence looked inside the boys’ mouths and proceeded to count their teeth. Next, they pulled down the boys’ pants. “This will have to be removed right away,” said one buyer, yanking the foreskin of a trembling boy. It was the custom of the Turks to circumcise the boys as a first step in their conversion to Islam. There was no Christian unfamiliar with the story of a North African ruler who tied Christian boys to a column, then had them lashed until they embraced the Muslim faith. Those who refused to convert were beaten until their bodies were drained of blood.