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a real town with a river, abundant water, and surrounded by gardens and orchards. It also had a proper garrison, which, though far from ideal — at the time Oran was home to about one thousand three hundred soldiers and their families, as well as five hundred inhabitants plying various trades — was nevertheless capable of putting up a reasonable defence and, if necessary, of mounting an attack. So although, in general, these fortress towns had pretty much been abandoned to their fate, Oran was certainly not the worst.
The proof of this was the presence of the supply convoy anchored in the bay of Cap Falcon, the town's harbour, between Mazalquivir's formidable fort and Mona Point beneath the castle of San Gregorio. There we finally rejoined the convoy we had left in order to give chase to the corsairs. We anchored close to land, next to the tower, and were borne to shore in feluccas. We walked the half league to the town which was built on top of a cliff and therefore had no good port of its own, which is where Mazalquivir came in. From that vantage point, looking out over the river that ran between the town and the fort of Rozalcazar, there were splendid views of the surrounding gardens, orchards, woods and windmills.
    As I said, we were happy to be back on land and with money in our pockets, and although Oran was no Naples — far from it — there were plenty of distractions. There were taverns run by former soldiers, a recent truce with the Moors meant that the market was well supplied, and everyone was pleased to see the wheat, cloth and gunpowder we had brought from Spain. There were even a few decent brothels. In garrison towns like Oran, even the bishops and theologians of our Holy Mother Church — after much debate and having resigned themselves to the inevitable — had concluded that a few sprightly doxies not only salved a soldier's itch but also safeguarded the virtue of maidens and married ladies, reducing the number of rapes and forays into Moorish territory in search of women. Indeed, as soon as we disembarked, soldiers and sailors alike were planning to do their duty and visit one of these brothels the moment they entered the town. However, no sooner had Captain Alatriste and I passed through the Canastel gate — the closer to the harbour of Oran's two gates — than we had a most pleasant, extraordinary and unexpected encounter, which just goes to show how life, with all its twists and turns, can still surprise us.
    'Well, I'll be hanged,' said a familiar voice.
    And there, as small and wiry as ever, was Sebastian Copons, hands on hips and sword at his side, standing in the shade, chatting to some soldiers, in his role as corporal in charge of the guard at the gate.
    'And so that's what happened,' he said, draining his mug.
    The three of us were sitting at a table outside a small, grubby tavern, beneath a much-patched bit of sailcloth that served as an awning. True to his old self, Copons wasted few words in summarising the last two years, which was how long it had been since we said our farewells in an Andalusian inn, after the massacre on board the Niklaasbergen and that business with the King's gold, when, with the help of a few comrades, we made short work of Flemings and hired killers alike at Barra de Sanlucar.
Since then, he told us, a run of bad luck had put paid to his plans to leave the army and set himself up in Huesca with a bit of land, a house and a wife. The first unfortunate episode took place in Seville and the second involved a death in Zaragoza. This latter incident attracted constables, lawyers, judges, scribes and all the other parasites that lie in wait amongst the paperwork like bedbugs in the seams of a sheet. Relieved of all his money and with his belly and pockets empty, he had been forced back to the barracks to earn his living. His attempts to get himself sent to the Indies failed: it wasn't soldiers they needed now, but functionaries, priests and artisans. Then, just as he was