**Summer of 1515 AD, North African Coast, Algiers**
The nearby blue Mediterranean was clear and cool, but the summer wind blew from the Sahara Desert — a dry, scorching southern breeze that could almost mummify a living man. At noon, the blazing sun turned this coastal city into a nearly 50-degree Celsius oven. Even flies wouldn't dare come out to forage at this time. Yet, in the central square of Algiers, over two thousand men were packed tightly together.
"Damn it! How long do we have to wait? When will this start?"
A burly man wiped the sweat off his face impatiently and stretched his stiff legs. He had just fought over a pathetic patch of shade beneath a date palm, and the bruises on his face made him even more irritable.
"Wait, I'm telling you, once it begins, it'll fill up immediately. Getting on Hayreddin's ship isn't that easy."
Usually, the fleet needed only two or three hundred crew replacements, but ten times that many had come to apply — the competition was fierce.
"Sour date juice! Light beer! Ice-cold drinks to quench your thirst and beat the heat!"
"Figs! Large grapes! Dried olives! Goat cheese, rich and sweet!"
"Sir, want some knife-polishing cloth? After polishing, they'll be sharper and shinier than Aladdin's sword! No? Then check out this Eastern foot fungus ointment, and Indian miracle pills for nine rounds a night!"
A dozen vendors braved the heat, pushing carts or carrying baskets, selling all kinds of snacks and drinks in the crowded square.
In this city dominated by Muslims, a Christian missionary dared not reveal his identity. Cloaked in a sun-shielding robe, he ordered a beer and casually asked a vendor, "So many men carrying knives and swords — what's going on here?"
The vendor immediately gave him a look of 'You must be out of the loop.' "Don't you know? The great pirate Hayreddin's ships are recruiting!"
"Barbarossa Hayreddin? That notorious North African..." The missionary covered his mouth, whispering, "Famous name indeed. But pirates openly gathering in the city center? They've got guts. Doesn't the governor care?"
The vendor laughed heartily, "You're an outsider, huh? Algiers is the city of pirates, and Hayreddin is the real underground governor here. Everyone in town depends on him for a living. Once you're on board, even if there's no war for a month, you still get three gold coins!"
The missionary was stunned. For comparison, Spain's regular navy paid just one silver coin per month. Three gold coins could buy twenty milk cows — no wonder so many flocked here.
Algiers was a pirate city. Countless citizens lived off the wealth the pirates brought — they were like gods of fortune and protectors. Being a pirate was the best job here, more popular than anything else.
The missionary was about to ask more when a nearly two-meter-tall burly man jumped onto the city wall, instantly stirring up the crowd.
"That's Hank, deputy captain of the assault squad!" The vendor's voice was filled with excitement and admiration. "The assault squad is the best of the best! Hank can fire a thousand-pound cannon!"
The giant raised his broad hand like a giant fan and pressed it down toward the crowd; the square immediately fell silent. His opening words were simple and blunt:
"Blind in one eye, ten gold coins! Blind in both eyes, twenty!
One arm lost, ten gold coins; both arms lost, twenty!
Nose, ears, fingers — three gold coins each!
If you lose your life, fifty gold coins to settle your family!"
The horrific, bloody announcements echoed through the air. The men fell silent for three seconds, then erupted like a tidal wave:
"Great! The pay's really high this time!"
"Long live Lord Hayreddin!"
"How much for losing a…"
"Pah! That little thing in your pants isn't worth half a finger, don't even ask for compensation!"
"Ha ha ha ha ha!!"
The giant continued, "We need five hundred men this time! If you're brave, come and try!" He pulled a handful of silver coins from his pocket and scattered them into the air, pouring fuel on the fiery crowd: "Those who grab the coins get on board!"
Such lavish generosity showed just how powerful this pirate fleet was.
Some restless men surged forward to snatch the shining coins. The crowd crushed into several clusters, voices full of scuffles and curses. Hank sneered; this kind of reckless effort could only get you a menial job on the ship.
Several strong men carried in a large iron cage with an official inside handing out coins. The crowd went wild, desperate to get close. The lucky ones snatched coins, the unlucky ones pushed forward with all their might or tried to snatch coins from others.
The scorching sun helped weed out the weak and sickly. Many collapsed from heat exhaustion and crushing pressure. The square resembled a disturbed anthill, shoes scattered on the ground. The missionary watched in stunned silence, unable to utter a word at this frenzy. The vendor laughed and said, "This is a test for toughness; the ship isn't a comfortable hotel."
When many were pressed to the point they could hardly move, a date pit fell with a soft "plop" from a lush palm tree near the city wall. Along with the pit's landing, a small figure jumped down, stepping on shoulders and pushing through vendors' carts like a little leopard, effortlessly slipping through the crowded masses and leaping onto the iron cage where the coins were handed out.
Hank was momentarily stunned. It was a teenage boy, carrying a slender bundle, wearing faded old clothes. From beneath a rough linen headscarf, a few strands of curly chestnut hair peeked out. His face was smeared with dirt and sweat, obscuring features, but his eyes were sharp and clear, black and white distinctly divided. At first glance, he looked inexperienced, yet a cold gleam unlike his age shone through. His gaze flickered like cold moonlight, chilling and fierce. Even Hank, a battle-hardened veteran, shivered under that stare.
"Give me a gold coin." The boy extended his hand boldly. His wrist looked slender and pale, but his palm bore faint calluses.
"Cheating! How can you do that?" Voices of dissatisfaction rose from the crowd. Someone tried to pull him down but the cage was over three meters high — out of reach.
The boy argued confidently, "You only said whoever grabs a coin counts, you didn't say how."
Hank nodded in agreement but didn't hand the boy a coin. After sizing him up, he smiled: "Kid, how old are you? No children on the ship."
"I'm sixteen. I'm already an adult." The boy straightened his chest, but it didn't make him much taller.
"He's not even fifteen! So short!"
"Yeah, yeah! Underdeveloped! One big wave and you'll be thrown overboard!"
Hank chuckled and said, "Open your mouth."
The boy was puzzled but obeyed.
Hank bent down and examined seriously, then announced loudly, "You still have baby teeth. No boarding for you!"
"Ha ha ha ha ha!!" The crowd burst into mocking laughter.
The boy got anxious. "I'm really an adult! I can do anything!"
Hank looked at his pointed chin and shook his head. "The ship's full of rough men. You won't last. Grow a few more years."
"I can read and write!" The boy added another qualification. The laughter quieted; in a crowd of a hundred men, few could even write their names. Literacy was a rare skill.
Hank nodded. "So you're educated. Go to the west side of the square, see if they need anyone."
The official was firm. The boy could only jump down from the cage and run west, stepping on shoulders but no one could catch his ankles.
"Damn, that kid's light but surprisingly heavy." Someone rubbed a sore shoulder, wondering where the weight came from.
Compared to the madness in the square, the recruitment on the west side was much calmer. Under white tents, a few wooden tables were set, and the officials looked kind, but hardly anyone approached. The boy passed by each table and understood why no one applied:
Navigator: Must know charts, steering, stars, tides, reefs.
Carpenter: Must read blueprints, repair ships, patch leaks, paint, make furniture.
Gunner: Ten shots, nine hits; must maintain muskets, swivel guns, cannons.
Armorer…
The boy shook his head as he walked. These skilled professionals were even harder to find than literate men.
At the last table sat a refined young man reading in the shade. Wearing expensive crystal glasses, he looked nothing like a pirate — more like a cold, proud scholar. In front of him lay a leather tool bag with a dozen exquisitely crafted silver knives and gleaming amputation saws.
A sign read: Doctor.
Hiring requirements: Don't even bother, idiot.
The boy was disappointed.
"Canon of Medicine, Avicenna..." He softly read the title of the book in the young man's hand as he left.
The doctor glanced up and asked, "Do you know Latin?"
"A little."
"What else?"
"Spanish, Italian, a bit of French and Arabic."
In the Mediterranean's complex multicultural milieu, illiterates often spoke several foreign languages. Many seasoned merchants knew languages better than scholars.
The doctor casually asked, "Can you write?"
"Yes, I often write letters for others."
The young man smiled warmly like a spring breeze. "Oh, that's rare. What's your name?"
"Nick." Seeing a glimmer of hope, the boy answered quickly.
The doctor smirked, "Heh, I don't need someone to write medical records, go away." He looked like he had played a prank and resumed reading. The boy stayed, stunned. Nearby, a plump cook laughed and cursed, "Victor, you give hope then reject — you're really mean."
"Hey, I'm a good guy. I only get mean when I agree." Victor slammed the book on the table and studied the boy closely. His sharp eyes behind the lenses were like scalpels, piercing skin and muscle straight to bone.
"Honestly, kid, you look too young. What kind of place is a pirate ship? Fierce Moors, greedy Jewish traders, excommunicated Christians, cheats, thieves, deserters, and wanted criminals — hundreds of lawless men crammed in the hold, months without women. Looking pretty isn't a good thing."
Nick was stunned but stubbornly replied, "You don't look bad yourself — aren't you working on the ship too?"
"Oh yes, no doubt I'm handsome, but you don't have this." Victor smiled and stroked his silver knives and saws. "Life is precious; only idiots cross the ship's doctor."
Nick was speechless. He lacked those skills. The plump cook couldn't stand it and pointed him toward the west, "Keep going west; maybe Old Luman at the warehouse needs people."
The second round of recruitment was just as tough. Few were accepted.
Don't be surprised — pirates also did business. Looted goods had to be turned into currency through trade. Hayreddin's fleet had over a dozen large ships; when fat profits were scarce, they carried local olive oil, cotton, and dates.
The warehouse bustled with activity. Over twenty clerks loaded goods onto wagons. In the dry season, the inland was barren; these were supplies for trade. Luman, a burly middle-aged man, was a seasoned Mediterranean merchant. Smoking expensive tobacco from the New World, he puffed smoke while directing the loading.
"Hmm? Want to join the warehouse?" Luman looked down at the skinny boy. "No, kid, it's hard labor. We only want strong men."
Nick said nothing. He picked up a sack of wheat and carried