NOVEL WEB Chapter 19: Leaving Paris
One early summer day in 1516, the pirate flag—white with a black hourglass—fluttered proudly in the wind, as a great pirate stood like a hero about to embark on a journey, amidst swirling petals and cheers.
...
A huge rat emerged from a pile of rubbish in the corner, its grey, oily fur shining; judging by its swollen belly, it was either pregnant with a litter or had just feasted on a sumptuous meal. Above the same heap of garbage, two filthy children, their gender indistinguishable, were scavenging and digging through the refuse. Their protruding ribs and hunger-burning eyes showed their efforts lacked the finesse of their oily little colleague.
The foul stench of sewage trickled through the alley—a smell indescribable, fermented from human and animal waste. In this city with no sewage system or public sanitation, those living on the second floor would open their windows to the morning sun and, without shame, empty their chamber pots onto the street below.
This was Paris—not a slum, but another facet of the 'City of Light.'
A slender youth wrapped in a headscarf stood in the shadow by the roadside, holding the reins of two horses, waiting for someone. The ubiquitous odor common to European cities was so familiar to him that it brought a sense of comfort deep within. He instinctively scanned the rubbish for anything reusable and gauged the value of wallets on passersby.
A wooden door in the alley creaked open, and a tall man cloaked in a grey mantle stepped out, his hood shadowing his hair and face, rendering his features indistinct. The cloak was made of coarse wool, but his boots were of fine leather, and a silver spur gleamed in the dim alley light. He glanced around and saw a rotund man in black robes standing before the youth, seemingly trying to persuade him.
"I see you're waiting for your master? Sixteen king's coins, how about it? The alley next door's empty." The fat man rubbed his hands, his thick lips glossy with saliva. He pulled a coin from his robes and waved it before the youth's eyes. "A freshly minted coin, just for a short while, no time wasted—you'll be done before your master returns."
The youth's gaze involuntarily flicked toward the heavy coin twice before he tried to refuse, when suddenly a sharp scream rang out. The black-robed fat man's face contorted in pain as he tumbled into the foul, muddy ditch by the roadside.
"Sorry, his master came back early." Hayreddin stood calmly where the fat man had just been, lightly tapping his palm with a riding whip. He said to Nick, "One coin's not enough to tempt you? You'd have to see two silver pillars at least."
"It's not my fault... Captain, you insisted I wash my face." Nick hurried to clear her name. She didn't understand the elegant subtlety of under-table flirting, but she was quite adept at street bargaining. Her fair, delicate face might not have meant much in high society, but in these grimy streets, it was considered a prized possession.
"Doing it my old way would have caused less trouble." Nick wiped her hand over the gray wall, skillfully smearing dirt across her face and then spreading some on her neck. In an instant, the lady carefully cultivated by Victor was restored to her original state.
Hayreddin studied her for a moment, then took the reins and vaulted onto his horse, heading south out of the city. Nick hurried to mount and catch up, unable to resist asking, "Hey Captain, are we leaving without breakfast?"
That morning, the only one leaving Paris in a soft-cushioned carriage amidst petals and cheers was a certain red-haired subordinate dressed as a captain. Meanwhile, Nick, leader of the vanguard, had been yanked from bed at three a.m., with no breakfast in sight.
Hayreddin frowned at the waves of foul odors hitting his face, gritting his jaw in a low voice: "Not possible here."
"But once out of the city, we'll have to steal carrots from the fields..." Nick muttered softly. "And it's not even that bad here—smell means the city's alive. Only the stench of plague-ridden corpses demands caution."
Hayreddin ignored her, flicking his horse's belly to speed up. Behind them, the youth kept negotiating, "We don't have to eat in the city. Let's buy some bread and get going? Maybe grab a couple of apples? I saw a fruit stall nearby! Captain?!"
The Paris trip was over. The towering city walls gradually disappeared behind them. This colorful, bustling, yet filthy city still stood proud upon the Seine.
Hayreddin's journey was secret. Karl and Victor only found a nervous substitute and a note saying, 'You go ahead,' when they woke that morning. After handling intelligence matters in Paris, Hayreddin took Nick back toward Marseille by the original route. Riding horses was far faster than carriage, and soon they left the main force far behind.
The European continent was already in early summer. Sunshine bathed the vast forests of inland France like a sea of green. On distant hills, ancient castles built of huge stones stood clearly—roofs overgrown with weeds, walls crawling with ivy. Gunpowder had ended the era of cold steel; the gallant knights who once rode eastward in fine clothes and bright horses had vanished forever.
Standing by the Loire River, Nick munched on a carrot, gloomily watching the rushing waters. This mission had disappointed her—though she had not drawn her sword, the promised French feast remained a fleeting mirage, with barely enough food to fill her belly.
A ferry floated downstream. Nick tossed the carrot tops aside, hopped barefoot into the shallow water, leaving a trail of small footprints in the mud, and shouted to the boatman, "Over here! Over here! We have horses!"
"Quiet now, the boat's here," Hayreddin said. "Don't shout so much next time."
"Huh?"
"You're beginning to change voice. If you want to keep your sweet voice these next two years, stay quiet. If there are orders to shout on board, Karl will do it."
"Oh." Nick reluctantly agreed, puzzled by the captain's far-reaching control. "Where are we headed?"
"Marseille," Hayreddin replied.
"Same destination as the main force?"
"Exactly. But I recall someone complaining about missing French cuisine."
Riding south through the Loire Valley, the countryside was beautiful and sparsely populated. Towns and villages were fresh and pleasant, no longer filthy like the city. They rode hard, but whenever they came to an inn, Hayreddin would dismount and feast with Nick.
Asparagus-tipped mushroom soup, golden honey-glazed baked apples, blackberry pies sprinkled with crushed hazelnuts, crisp pickled cucumbers, and broccoli cold dishes. No corsets, no missions—Nick finally fulfilled her wish, eating French food to her heart's content.
When they reached Marseille, it had just rained. The clouds cleared, and the sky was as pure as washed silk. Sunlight glittered off the sea, white light shimmering so bright it made their eyes squint. The moist breeze brushed their faces; the cries of seagulls passed over billowing white sails. Those born of the sea could never truly love the land, just as nomads feel awkward walking after dismounting their horses.
At the dock, the fleet of red lion ships was just as they had left it. Nick looked at the beautiful prow of the Siren and said, "We arrived four or five days before Karl and the others? Nobody came to meet us."
"Of course not. I told no one." The sea breeze blew through Hayreddin's red hair, his demeanor regal as a king returning to his domain. A sly grin returned to the red lion's face, and Nick instinctively sensed someone was about to get into trouble.
The captain's surprise inspection threw the overseers into a panic. This was not their home in Algiers. Before leaving, Hayreddin had strictly ordered no combatants to leave the ship unless for resupply or intelligence gathering.
After counting heads, there were thirty-five absentees among twelve hundred men. Such attendance was commendable by naval standards, and Hayreddin was satisfied. He checked the ship's supplies and cleanliness again.
Long training had taught the sailors not to slack off. Even without the captain, the deck was scrubbed daily, bronze cannons gleamed, coils of rope were neatly arranged, replacement masts covered with waterproof tarps. Barrels of salted meat, butter, dried beans, soup ingredients, and hard biscuits were stored in order according to purchase date and expiration. Gunpowder was carefully separated into coarse, fine, and powdered grains and stowed in the lowest hold.
"Well done, everyone. Just forgot to oil the cannons—won't do if we meet enemies like this." Hayreddin smiled, placing a gold coin into the touch hole of each bronze cannon. This 'oiling' was a traditional form of praise, causing the arsenal and boatswain to grin widely.
"Anyone caught wandering around the decks without permission will get twelve lashes. The ship's doctor will administer the punishment once he returns. Alright, everyone back to your duties."
Hayreddin said this and returned with Nick to the captain's cabin aboard the Siren. His strict discipline left no room for argument, and everyone happily resumed their work.
"Captain..." Nick whispered, "There are women on these ships—quite a few." The sound of rustling skirts and the unusual scent of perfume amidst the stench of the pirates' sweat were unmistakable. She did not believe the keen-scented captain had missed it.
"Consider it unseen," Hayreddin said with satisfaction. "If we don't allow them off, nor allow women on board, I'd have to strike the colors and run when meeting enemies. Morale matters; sometimes rules need bending."
"Why not let women join the crew? Armies on land often bring a few to war."
"Because they consume precious fresh water." Hayreddin looked meaningfully at Nick. "Few captains can tolerate subordinates bathing every few days."
At night, a dozen women in gaudy dresses slipped off the ships, disappearing into the night amid the reluctant gazes of the pirates. Among them were seaside girls earning pocket money and professional women. The price was fair, and both parties left satisfied.
Three days later, the mounted troops arrived at the harbor. Karl was displeased with their secret departure until he saw Nick safe and sound. Victor clung to the rope ladder, pale, climbing aboard with the help of two comrades below. Nick pulled him up by his embroidered collar.
"Victor, how do you say 'clumsy bookworm' in Latin?" she teased. "The cook weighs two hundred pounds, has only one real leg, and climbs better than you."
"If I hadn't amputated that rotten leg, you'd be eating bug-infested biscuits now with no time for your damned Latin," Victor growled, pushing her hand away and awkwardly tucking in his shirt.
In any ship, one unable to climb a rope ladder would be ridiculed, but none aboard the Siren mocked him. The ship's doctor was a revered figure—especially one as skilled as Victor. Many sailors held him in near-superstitious awe. One sailor carried his medical bag and box to the infirmary with great respect.
"Any news I should know?" Victor asked.
"Thirty-five lashes to administer," Nick replied. "Captain said you'll do the honors."
"Ha, good. Thirty-five new whips and a bunch of injury care. No rest for the wicked." Victor pushed open the infirmary door. "Nothing worse?"
Nick thought for a moment: "Oh, a few women snuck aboard."
Victor's mouth dropped in disbelief, then he slumped against the wall. "Oh Lord, twelve hundred men, and every one needs checking for syphilis and gonorrhea! How do they manage their pants?! Damn eunuch pirates!"
Despite his complaints, the work had to be done. To avoid infection, every punished man could demand a freshly disinfected whip. The 'nine-tail whip'—made by unraveling a thick rope into nine strands, each tipped with a knot—was the common tool of discipline at sea.
Victor soaked the whips in low-concentration alcohol and dried them under the sun. The flogging ceremony was solemn. The pirates watched the whipping ropes fluttering in the wind, waiting for their day of reckoning.
One bright morning, the thirty-five offenders were gathered on deck, shirts removed and bare-chested, tied to masts and the helm. Twelve lashes was a light punishment meant to warn. In full view of their brothers, they endured the lesson.
Hayreddin stood on the forecastle platform, the jewels on his Damascus saber sparkling in the sun. Behind him stood the vanguard captain and the ship's overseer, all dressed in their finest attire and gear.
"I hope everyone remembers my words clearly," Hayreddin pronounced, enunciating each syllable. "The captain's orders are not to be defied."
The boatswain swung the whip, counting loudly as the lashes fell.
All was as usual. The Siren, like a beautiful dove spreading her wings, glided steadily with the wind toward North Africa.
The summer of 1516 was unusual for many.
From this year onward, led by France, European nations simultaneously began privateering, eager to claim a share of the great Age of Discovery. Spanish treasure ships laden with gold and silver returning from the New World no longer enjoyed smooth currents but faced state-sanctioned pirates flying black flags.
And in secret, events unknown to most would soon ripple through the future world.
Like a palace servant quietly leaving Paris, riding through borders toward Toledo, the Spanish capital; or pirate ships with unmistakable Turkish design sailing straight toward Algiers.
As for Nick—the fledgling cast from her nest—she still knew nothing of her past or future.