The Pirates of the Levant by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Page B

still following us. I tugged at Captain Alatriste's buff coat and he looked back too. Copons made as if to unsheathe his dagger, but the Captain grabbed his arm. Then he went over to the Moor again, taking his time, as if pondering what to say to him.
    'Listen, Moor—'
    'My name is Aixa Ben Gurriat.'
    'I know what your name is. You told me at Uad Berruch.'
They stood motionless, studying each other in the gloom while Copons and I remained a short distance away. The Moor was still making a point of keeping his hands well away from his dagger. I had one hand resting on the hilt of my sword, ready, at the slightest suspicious move on Moor's part, to pin him against the wall. The Captain did n seem to share my unease. Instead, he stuck his thumbs in h belt, looked to either side, glanced briefly back at us, then leaned against the wall, next to the Moor.
'Why did you go into that tent?' he asked at last.
The other man took a while to respond.
'I heard a shot. I had seen you fighting earlier on, and you seemed to be a good imyahad — a good fighter, a very good fighter.'
'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. t Tidt. 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