Corsair

FIVE

HECTOR STUMBLED THROUGH the next few hours. Numbed by his sister’s disappearance, he barely noticed what was happening as he was inscribed in the register, and he slept badly in the bleak holding cell where the captives were kept overnight. Again and again he wondered what might have happened to Elizabeth and how he might find out. But there was no opportunity to enquire. At first light he and the other prisoners were woken and, barefoot and still wearing the soiled clothes in which they had been captured, they were marched up the hill to the great building Hector had mistaken for the citadel. In fact it was the Kasbah, part fort, part palace. In a courtyard the men were mustered in three lines, and after a short wait the Dey’s head steward appeared. He was accompanied by three men whom Hector later knew to be two overseers from the public slave barracks and a Jew who was an experienced slave broker. The trio walked up and down between the lines, occasionally stopping to consult with one another or examine a prisoner’s physique. Hector felt like a beast in a cattle market when one of the overseers reached out to pinch his arm muscles, then prodded him in the ribs with the butt of a wooden baton. Finally, when the inspection was complete, the Jew in his black cap and black gown walked between the lines and tapped four men on the shoulder. Among them was the strapping young villager whom Hector had formerly seen going out to cut turf. As the four were led away by the guards, Hector heard the crazed grey beard standing beside him mutter under his breath, ‘Beylik, poor bastards.’

The old man appeared to be in one of his more lucid moods, for he seemed to remember who Hector was, and announced his own name as Simeon. ‘You noticed, didn’t you?’ he asked the young man. ‘They took the strong ones. You were lucky not to be picked. Probably too skinny . . . or too beautiful,’ and he laughed coarsely to himself. ‘This is Algiers, you know. They keep their pretty boys close to home, not sent off to work as public slaves.’

Hector was feeling light-headed in the heat. ‘What’s going to happen to us now?’ he enquired.

‘Off to the badestan, I expect,’ explained Simeon.

The badestan proved to be an open square close to the Kasbah’s main entrance. Here a large crowd of Algerines had already assembled, and before Hector could understand what was happening, an old man had taken him by his arm in a friendly way, and begun to lead him around the square. It was several steps before Hector realised that he was in the hands of an auctioneer. There was a shouted demand from an onlooker. The old man stopped, then pulled the shirt off Hector’s shoulders so that the young man’s naked torso was exposed. A few paces further and at another request called from the crowd, the old man produced a thin, whippy cane and, to Hector’s shock, slashed it violently across his ankles. Hector leapt in pain. Even before he had landed, the auctioneer had repeated the blow from the other direction, so that Hector was forced to skip and turn in the air. Twice more during the circuit of the square, the cane was used and he was made to jump and spin. Then the auctioneer began to sing out what must have been his salesman’s patter, for there were answering calls from the crowd, and Hector guessed that they were making their bids. The bidding reached its climax and the auctioneer was making what seemed to be his last appeal, when a dignified-looking Turk stepped out of the crowd and came across to where Hector was standing. The newcomer was clearly a man of substance. His purple velvet jacket was richly embroidered, and the silver handle of a fine dagger showed above the brocade sash around his waist. On his head was a tall felt hat with jewelled brooch pinned to it. The man said something quietly to the auctioneer who reached up and placed his wiry hand on Hector’s jaw. Then he squeezed with a firm downward pull, and Hector involuntarily opened his mouth. The Turk peered into his mouth, seemed satisfied, and murmured something to the auctioneer who immediately led Hector back to his waiting companions.

‘I told them my age already,’ grumbled Hector to Simeon.

His complaint was met with a gleeful chuckle. ‘It was not your age he wanted to know. But the state of your teeth.’ The smirking grey beard opened his own mouth and pointed triumphantly at his own teeth. The few of them that remained were brown and rotten. ‘Can’t chew with them,’ he crowed. ‘I’d be no good at all. Even though I’ve done my time.’

‘Where, old man?’ asked Hector, growing tired of Simeon’s vagueness.

The dotard snickered, ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ and would say no more.

Hector looked back at the well-dressed man who had bought him. The same purchaser was now interested in the sailor Dunton, and was again talking with the auctioneer even as the guards began shoving all the captives back into line. Those who had not been stripped to the waist now had their shirts or smocks removed. Then the auctioneer walked down the line, followed by an attendant holding a clay pot and a small brush. In front of each man the auctioneer stopped, checked a document he was holding, and then said something to the attendant who stepped forward. He dipped his brush into the pot and made marks on the man’s chest in ochre paint. Looking down at the marks as they dried on his skin, Hector supposed they were numbers or letters, but whether they were the bid price or an identity number he did not know.

CAPTAIN OF GALLEYS Turgut Reis had not intended to go to the badestan that morning, but his senior wife had hinted that he get out of the house so that she could have the servants do a more thorough job of cleaning his study. In her subtle way she let it be known that he was spending too much time poring over his musty books and charts, and he would be better off meeting up with his friends for cups of coffee and conversation over a pipe of tobacco. Indeed it was unusual for the Captain of Galleys to be in Algiers in the last week of July at all. Normally he would be at sea on a cruise. But this summer was out of the ordinary as well as stressful. A month earlier his galley, Izzet Darya, had sprung a bad leak. When hauled up for repairs, the shipwrights had discovered three or four areas of badly wormed planking that would have to be replaced. The Arsenal at Algiers was chronically short of timber as there were no forests in the neighbourhood, and the owner of the slipway had said he would be obliged to send away for baulks in suitable lengths, maybe as far away as Lebanon. ‘Those Shaitan infidels from Malta are running amok,’ he warned. ‘In previous years I could get deliveries brought by neutral ships. But this year those fanatics have been plundering everything that sails. And even if I can find a freighter, the charges are already exorbitant.’ And he had given Turgut a look which clearly told him that it was high time that the Captain of Galleys got himself a new galley, instead of trying to patch up the old one.

But Turgut was fond of Izzet Darya and did not want to abandon her. He admitted that the vessel was old-fashioned, hard to manoeuvre and over-ornate. But then he himself was a bit like his ship – old-fashioned and set in his ways. His friends always said that he was living in the past, and that he should keep up with the times. They would cite the case of Hakim Reis. Hakim, they pointed out, had shrewdly switched from a vessel propelled by oars to a sailing ship which had greater range and could stay at sea for weeks at a time. The benefits were obvious from the value of the prizes that Hakim Reis was bringing in, the recent batch of captives for example. But, thought Turgut, Hakim was also blessed with remarkable luck. He was always in the right place at the right time to snap up a prize, while he, Captain of Galleys, might loiter at the crucieri, as unbelievers called the areas where the sea lanes crossed, and not see a sail for days. No, Turgut assured himself, he preferred to stick with tradition, for tradition had elevated him to be Captain of Galleys. That appointment, with all its prestige as the acknowledged head of all the corsair captains of Algiers, was not in the gift of the Dey nor of the divan, nor indeed of the scheming odjaks of Algiers. The corsairs of Algiers had their own guild, the taifa, which came together to nominate a leader, but the Sultan himself had indicated whom they should choose. He had nominated Turgut Reis in recognition of the family’s tradition of service in the Sultan’s navy, for Turgut’s father had commanded a war galley, and his most famous ancestor, his great-uncle Piri Reis, had been admiral of the entire Turkish fleet.

Turgut, when he had received the news, had been both proud and a little anxious. At the time he had been living in the imperial capital and he knew that both his wives would be reluctant to leave. But there was no question of declining the honour. The Sultan’s wish was sacrosanct. So Turgut had rented out the family mansion on the shores of the Bosphorus, packed up his belongings, said goodbye to the other courtiers at court, and sailed for Barbary with his family and his entourage aboard the venerable Izzet Darya.

Of course they had found Algiers very provincial compared to the sophistication of Constantinople. But he and his family had done their best to adapt. He had deliberately skirted around the local politics and tried to set an example to the other captains, to remind them of the old ways. That is why he still dressed in the courtly style, with full pantaloons hanging low, a resplendent waistcoat and an overmantle, and the tall felt hat, decorated with a brooch that he had received personally from the hands of the Sultan of Sultans, Khan of Khans, Commander of the Faithful and Successor of the Prophet of the Lord of the Universe.

He had not intended to buy any slaves at the badestan until the young dark-haired man caught his eye. The youth had a look about him that said he might one day make an astute scrivano as the locals called their scribes, or, if he had been younger, perhaps even a kocek, though Turgut himself had never much time for clever dancing boys and their attractions. So it was on an impulse that he had bought the dark-haired one, and then, having made one purchase, it had seemed only natural to make a second. He bid for the second slave because the man was so obviously a sailor. Turgut could recognise a mariner of whatever nationality, be he Turk or Syrian, Arab or Russian, and Turgut felt he was able to justify his second purchase more easily. Izzet Darya was a rowing galley, but she also carried two enormous triangular sails and she needed capable sail handlers. Moreover, if he was very lucky, the new purchase might even possess shipwright’s skills. That would be a bonus. Good timber was not the only shortage in the Arsenal of Algiers. More than half the workmen in the galley yards were foreigners, many of them slaves, and if the new purchase could cut, shape and fit timber, he would be a useful addition to the boatyard. Turgut would rent his slave out for a daily wage or have the cost of his labour deducted from the final bill for the repairs to Izzet Darya.

Having made his bids, Turgut followed the captives back to the courtyard of the Dey’s palace. Now came the final haggling. It was an auction all over again. Each slave was set up on a block and the bid price, written on the man’s chest, was called out. According to custom the Dey had the right to buy the man at that sum if the original bidder did not increase his offer. Turgut noted the frisson of interest among the spectators when a fat pale-skinned man was pushed up on the block. He was too soft and chubby to be a labourer, and the first price at the badestan was already substantial, 800 pieces of eight in the Spanish money or nearly 1,500 Algerian piastres. Turgut wondered if someone had secretly investigated the man’s value. In the slave trade you had to know what you were doing, particularly if you thought you were buying someone worth a ransom. Then the bidding became hectic, both sides gambling on just how much money might be squeezed out of the infidel’s family and friends. So a common technique when prisoners were first landed was to place among them informers who pretended to be in similar hardship. They befriended the new arrivals and, when they were at their most vulnerable, wormed out personal details – the amount of property they owned at home, the importance of their families, the influence they had with their governments. All was reported back and reflected in the price at the Dey’s auction. On this occasion the fat man was clearly English for it was the English consul’s dragoman who was defending the original bid, and when the Dey’s agent increased the price only by 500 piastres before dropping out, Turgut suspected that the dragoman had already paid a bribe to the Dey to ensure that the fat man was placed in the consul’s care.

Turgut had only a token tussle over the final price for the black-haired young man. The captive looked too slight to be much use as a common labourer and, besides, there was a glut of slaves in the city. So the eventual price of 200 piastres was reasonable enough, as was the fee of 250 pieces of eight which he had to pay for the sailor whose name, according to the auction roster, was Dunton. If the latter proved to be a shipwright then, according to Turgut’s calculations, he would charge the shipyard 6 pieces of eight per month for his labour.

Turgut was leaving the Kasbah, well satisfied with his purchases, when he came face to face with someone he had been trying to avoid for the past few weeks – the khaznadji, the city treasurer. The encounter was unfortunate because Turgut was severely in arrears with his taxes on the value of the plunder that he had earned when his ship was seaworthy. Not that the Captain of Galleys believed the meeting was accidental, because the khaznadji was flanked by two odjaks wearing their regulation red sashes and yatagans, the ceremonial dagger. The odjaks, as Turgut was all too aware, would be formal witnesses to any conversation.

‘I congratulate you, effendi,’ murmured the tax collector after the usual compliments and civilities in the name of the Padishah. ‘I understand that you have purchased two fine slaves. I wish you well of their employ.’

‘I thank you,’ answered Turgut. ‘I shall put them to useful work in due course.’

‘So your ship is to be ready soon?’

The khaznadji knew very well that Izzet Darya would be in dock for at least another month, and that as long as his vessel was out of commission, Turgut Reis had no income and a great many expenses, not least of them the mounting costs of the repairs. Being Captain of Galleys was a great honour, but unfortunately it did not carry a stipend. The plundering cruise, the corso, was the only way for him to make a living, just as it was for his crew. Turgut’s petty officers and free oarsmen – about half the total – had long ago left to join other galleys. His slave oarsmen came from a contractor, and Turgut had been obliged to terminate the agreement prematurely. Unfortunately the disappointed slave contractor was also the khaznadji.

‘Inshallah, my ship will be afloat before long,’ Turgut replied smoothly, deciding it was better that he bought himself some time with a gesture of generosity, though he could ill afford one. ‘Those two slaves, which you admire, perhaps you would do me the honour of accepting one of them on loan. That would give me pleasure.’

The khaznadji lifted his hand in a small graceful gesture, acknowledging the gift. He had what he wanted, compensation for the cancelled hire contract. If the Captain of Galleys went bankrupt, which would surely happen if his antique galley was not repaired in time, the slave would automatically become his property.

Privately the khaznadji despised Turgut. He thought the man was an old fogey who considered himself superior to the Algerines and because the captain came from the Seraglio, the imperial court, he presumed that the young black-haired slave had been purchased for his sexual gratification. It would be amusing to humiliate the captain still further by exposing his handsome young man to abuse.

‘You are too kind. I admire your generosity, and indeed it is a difficult choice. With your permission, I select the dark-haired one. But it would be improper to retain him for my household, so I shall place him to the benefit of the city. I will assign him to the beylik, to do public labour.’

He bowed and moved on, feeling that he had extracted the best possible outcome from the encounter.

ON HIS WAY back home after the awkward meeting with the khaznadji, Turgut Reis knew what he would do to restore his normal good humour. His house was one of the privileges that came with his rank as Captain of Galleys. A four-storey mansion, it was positioned on almost the highest point of the city, with a magnificent view out over the harbour and the sea beyond. To take full advantage of the location, Turgut had caused a garden to be created on the flat roof. His servants had carried up hundreds of baskets of earth and laid out flowerbeds. Sweet-smelling shrubs had been selected and planted, and a dozen trees rooted in large tubs to shade the spot where Turgut liked to sit cross-legged, gazing over the view and listening to the distant sounds of the city spread out below him. Now, reaching the roof garden, he called for his favourite carpet to be brought out. It was an Usak in the old-fashioned Anatolian style and made with the Turkish knot. In Turgut’s opinion the more recent and popular Seraglio designs with their profusion of tulips and hyacinths and roses were much too showy, though he had to admit that the Persian knotting did give them a softer, more velvety surface. But only the Usak carpet with its pattern of repeated stars was the appropriate setting for his most prized possession – the Kitab-i Bahriye.

He waited patiently while his steward brought up the beautifully carved bookstand, and then the volume itself. Turgut looked down at the cover of the book and allowed himself a few moments of anticipation before he opened it and relished the treasures within. Of course, there were other versions of the Book of Sea Lore as the infidels called it. Indeed the Padishah himself owned the most lavishly illustrated copy in existence, a volume prepared specially for the Sultan of Sultans. But the copy lying before Turgut was unique. It was the original. Prepared 150 years ago by Turgut’s forebear, the peerless Piri Reis, the book of maps and charts and its accompanying collection of sailing notes had been passed down in his family for six generations. It was the wellspring from which all other versions had been drawn.

Turgut leaned forward and opened the book at random. He knew every page by memory, yet he never failed to be awed by the vision of the man who had created it. ‘God has not granted the possibility of displaying everyone of the afore-mentioned places such as harbours and waters around the shores of the Mediterranean, and the reefs and shoals in the water, in a single map,’ he read. ‘Therefore experts in this science have drawn up what they call a “chart” with a pair of compasses according to a scale of miles, and it is written directly on a parchment.’

Here was the genius of his ancestor, thought Turgut. The man who wrote those words was much more than the Sultan’s High Admiral and a great war leader. He also had the curiosity and penetration to study and learn, and the generosity to donate his knowledge to others.

Gently Turgut untied the silk ribbons of an accompanying folder. It contained a very special map also prepared by Piri, a map of much greater ambition for it summarised what the admiral had been able to find out about the great western ocean beyond the straits which divide Spain and Ifriqya. This map depicted lands far, far out towards the setting sun, places which neither the High Admiral nor the Captain of Galleys had ever visited, but only knew by repute. Piri Reis had spent years sifting and collating information in the writings and log books of infidels as well as Moors in order to assemble this map, the first of its kind in the Padishah’s Empire, copied and admired in many lands.

Turgut picked out a typical comment written in the admiral’s neat hand, beside a sketch of a weird-looking beast on the west coast of Ifriqya. ‘In this country it seems that there are white-haired monsters in this shape, and also six-horned oxen. The Portuguese infidels have written it in their maps.’ Turgut sat back and considered. That sentence had been penned a century and a half earlier, yet already the infidels had been showing signs of surpassing the Faithful in their knowledge of the seas and how to navigate them. How had that come to pass? When he looked up into the night sky and searched for the stars that guide mariners at sea, they bore the names that the Faithful had given them, because it was the Moors who had first learned how to use them to find their way at night. Some said the Faithful were obliged to do this because they travelled on the haj across the vast expanses of the desert, and they needed the stars to guide them on their pilgrimage to the sacred places. So Allah in his infinite wisdom had placed the stars in the sky for this purpose. But now it was the infidels who were travelling farthest, and using these same stars to steer by. They were at the forefront of knowledge. Infidels were designing and building the finest sea-going ships even in the dockyards of Algiers; infidel cartographers drew the best charts; and unbelievers had sailed all the way around the globe.

But Turgut Reis had a secret that he had never revealed to anyone: one day he would, in a splendid gesture, demonstrate that the Faithful still possessed the skills that Allah had bestowed on the followers of the Prophet and, at the same time, burnish his own family tradition. He, Turgut Reis, might never be able to circumnavigate the globe like an infidel, nor explore the farther fringes of the western ocean, but he had the means and the opportunity to expand the Book of Sea Lore that his ancestor had pioneered, and that was just as momentous. That is why, every time he went on the corso, he carried with him his notebooks and brushes, why he made notes of the harbours and anchorages, and drew sketches of the coastlines. The day would come, if Allah willed it, when he would organise all these notes and drawings, and produce a new edition of the Kitab-i Bahriye, updating it to show all the changes that had taken place in the Mediterranean since the days of the High Admiral. It would be his personal homage to the memory of his ancestor.

Belatedly he had come to realise the magnitude of the task ahead of him, and now he worried that its accomplishment was slipping from his grasp. Through God’s will he lacked sons who might share in the great design, and with each passing year he felt the burden of his ancestry resting more heavily on his shoulders. In short, he needed a capable assistant to make sense of all his notes, organise his many sketches, and draw fair copies of his maps and charts. Perhaps, Turgut thought to himself, the young man he had bought that day might be just the amanuensis he needed. That, too, might be the gift of Allah.

Turgut bowed his head and closed his eyes. His lips moved in a silent prayer, as he beseeched the Most Merciful, the All-Merciful, that he would be granted a life long enough to fulfil that ambition, and that his eyesight would not fail prematurely.

Suddenly Turgut felt chilly. While he had been daydreaming, the sun had sunk behind the mountains, and the evening was growing cold. He clapped his hands to summon a servant and picked up the Kitab. Cradling it like his own child, he descended the stairs from the roof top, entered his library and replaced the volume in its box of cedar wood. Behind him the servant carried the precious ocean map in its folder, and then stood waiting until his master had laid it safely beneath a coverlet of dark green velvet. As Turgut took one last glance around his library to make sure that everything was in its proper place, he wondered if there was any way that he could retrieve the black-haired boy from the clutches of the khaznadji before the drudgery of being a beylik slave ruined him.