Captain Alatriste

"No, although they could have, and perhaps saved themselves. I was a soldier for nearly thirty years. I have killed, and I have done things for which my soul will be damned through eternity. But I know how to appreciate the gesture of a courageous man. And heretics or not, those men were courageous."

"You give that much importance to courage?"

"There are times when courage is all that is left," the captain said with utter simplicity. "Especially in times like these, when even flags and the name of God are used to strike deals."

If he had expected a reply, there was none. The masked man did nothing but continue to stare at him. "By now, of course, you have learned who those two Englishmen are."

Alatriste said nothing, but finally allowed a weak sigh to escape. "Would you believe me if I denied it? Since yesterday, all of Madrid has known." He looked at the Dominican and then the masked man with an expression that was easy to read. "And I am happy not to have that on my conscience."

The scribe made a brusque movement, as if attempting to shake off the thing Diego Alatriste had not wanted to be responsible for. "You bore us with your inopportune conscience, Captain."

This was the first time he had used that form of address. It was consciously ironic, and Alatriste frowned, not pleased.

"It matters little whether I bore you or not," he replied. "I do not like to murder princes without knowing who they are." Irritated, he twisted his mustache. "Or to be deceived and manipulated."

"And you feel no curiosity," intervened the priest, who had been listening closely, "as to why just men had determined to procure those deaths? Or prevent evil men from usurping the good faith of our lord and king, and from taking an infanta of Spain to the land of heretics as a hostage?"

Alatriste slowly shook his head. "No, I am not curious. Please consider, Your Mercies, that I have not even attempted to find out who this gentleman is who covers his face with a mask." Alatriste looked at his questioners with mocking, insolent seriousness. "Nor the identity of the one who, before he left the other night, insisted that I should merely frighten Masters John and Thomas Smith, take their letters and documents, but spare their lives."

For a moment the Dominican and his companion said nothing. They seemed to be thinking. It was the latter who finally spoke, staring at his ink-stained fingernails.

"Perhaps you suspect who that other caballero might be?"

"'Sblood! I suspect nothing. I find myself involved in something that is too rich for my fancy, and I regret it. Now all I hope to do is to leave with my head attached to my body."

"Too late," said the priest, in a tone so low and menacing that it reminded the captain of the hissing of a snake.

"Returning to our two Englishmen," the masked man put in. "You will recall that after the other caballero left, you received different instructions from the holy father and from me."

"I remember. But I also remember that you yourself seemed to show special deference to that 'other caballero,' and that you did not reveal your orders until he was gone and the ... holy father"—Alatriste looked out of the corner of his eye at the Inquisitor: remote, impassive, as if all this had nothing to do with him—"had stepped from behind the tapestry. That too may have influenced my decision regarding the lives of the Englishmen."

"You accepted good money not to respect them."

"True." The captain put his hand to his belt. "And here it is."

The gold coins rolled across the table and lay gleaming in the light of the candles. Fray Emilio Bocanegra did not even look at them, as though they were cursed. But the masked man reached for them and counted them one by one, stacking them into two small piles beside the inkwell.

"You are four doubloons short," he said.

"Yes. That is payment for my trouble. And for having been taken for an imbecile."

The Dominican exploded with a flash of choler. "You are a traitor, and totally untrustworthy," he said, contempt vibrating in his voice. "With your untimely attack of scruples, you have favored the enemies of God and of Spain. All this will be purged from you, I promise, in the cauldrons of Hell, but before that you will pay dearly here on earth. With your mortal flesh." The word "mortal" sounded even more terrifying coming from those icy, clenched lips. "You have seen too much, you have heard too much, you have made too many errors. Your life, Captain Alatriste, is worth nothing. You are a cadaver that—through some strange chance—is still walking and talking."

As the Dominican made that fearsome threat, the masked man was sprinkling powder on the sheet before him, to dry the ink. Then he folded it and put it into a pocket, and as he did, Alatriste again glimpsed the tip of the red cross of Calatrava beneath his black cloak. He also observed that the hands with the blackened nails collected the coins, apparently forgetting that part of them had come from the purse of the Dominican.

"You may go," the priest said to Alatriste, looking at him as if he had just remembered he was there.

The captain looked back at him with surprise. "I am free?"

"In a manner of speaking," added Fray Emilio Bocanegra, with a smile equivalent to excommunication. "You go with the weight of your treachery and our curses around your neck."

"That will not be heavy." Alatriste turned from one to the other, incredulous. "Is it true that I may leave? Now?"

"That is what we said. The wrath of God will know where to find you."

"The wrath of God does not worry me tonight. But Your Mercies ..."

The Dominican and the scribe were on their feet. "We have concluded," said the former.

Alatriste studied their faces. The candlelight from below cast ominous shadows.

"I find that difficult to believe," Alatriste concluded. "After you had me brought here."

"That," said the masked man as a last word, "no longer has anything to do with us."

They walked out, taking the candelabrum with them, and the last thing Diego Alatriste saw was the terrible gaze the Dominican threw his way before crossing his arms and thrusting his hands into the sleeves of his habit. The two men faded away like shadows. Instinctively, the captain reached for the grip of the sword that was not at his waist.

"A pox on them! Where is the trap in all this?"

His question was pointless, echoing through the empty room. There was no answer. As he strode toward the door, he remembered the slaughterer's knife he carried in his bootleg. He bent down and pulled it out, gripping it firmly, awaiting the attack of the executioners who, he was sure, were waiting for him.

But none came. He was inexplicably alone in the room dimly illuminated by the rectangle of moonlight falling through the window.

I do not know how long I waited outside, blending into the darkness, motionless behind the carriage guard on the corner post. I clutched the captain's cape and weapons closer, to borrow a little warmth from them—I was wearing only my doublet and hose when I ran after the coach of Martin Saldana and his catchpoles—and stood there a long while, clenching my teeth to keep them from chattering. Finally, when neither the captain nor anyone else came out of the house, I began to be concerned. I could not believe that Saldana had murdered my master, but in that city at that time, anything was possible. The idea truly alarmed me. When I looked closely I thought I could see a sliver of light escaping through one of the windows, as if someone were inside with a lamp, but from where I stood it was impossible to verify. I decided, despite the danger, to try to get near enough to peek inside.

I was about to step into the open, when, in one of those strokes of fortune to which we sometimes owe our lives, I caught a glimpse of movement some distance away, in the entry to a neighboring house. It was only a flicker, but a shadow had moved as the shadows of motionless objects do when they become animate. Surprised, I swallowed my impatience and stood there, undecided, keeping my eyes glued to the spot. After a while, it moved again, and at that same moment, from across the small plaza I heard a soft whistle that sounded like a signal: a little tune, something like ti-ri-tu, ta-ta. When I heard that, the blood froze in my veins.

There must be at least two, I decided, after scrutinizing the shadows that covered the Gate of Lost Souls. One of them was hiding in the nearest entryway; that was the first shadow that had moved. The second, the one that had whistled, was farther away, covering the angle of the plaza that led to the wall of the slaughterhouse. There were three ways out, so for a while I concentrated on the third. Finally, when the clouds parted to reveal a crescent moon, I was rewarded: I made out a third dark shape, silhouetted against the moonlight.

The plan was clear, and boded ill for the captain, but I had no way to run the thirty steps to the house without being seen. I pondered these developments, and sat down and unrolled the cape, then placed one of the pistols on my knees. Its use was forbidden by edict of our lord and king, and I was well aware that if the law found me with them, my young bones would end up in a galley, and my youth would not excuse me. But, upon my word as a Basque, at that moment I did not give a fig. So, as I had watched the captain do so many times, I felt to see that the flint stone was in place, and trying to muffle the click with the cape, I pulled back the hammer to cock the pistol for firing. That one I stuck between my doublet and my shirt. I primed the second pistol, and waited with it in one hand and the captain's sword in the other. I put the now empty cape around my shoulders, and thus equipped, I continued my vigil.

I did not have long to wait. A light shone briefly in the enormous entry to the house, then was extinguished. I heard a carriage and turned to see it approaching from one of the exits of the small plaza. Along with it, I made out a black silhouette that entered the courtyard and for a brief instant consulted with two dark figures that had emerged from the house. The first shadow returned to its corner, and the other figures climbed into the carriage. As it started off, with its black mules and funereal coachman, it passed so close that it nearly brushed against me, then it rolled off into the darkness.

I did not have long to reflect upon the mysterious carriage. The sound of the mules' hooves was still echoing across the plaza when from the spot where the black silhouette was posted came another whistle, again that ti-ri-tu, ta-ta, and from the nearest corner the unmistakable sound of a sword being slowly drawn from its scabbard. Desperately, I prayed to God to part the clouds once more, and allow me to see. But it is a long way from thinking about the horse to saddling it. Our Supreme Maker must have been busy with other duties, because the clouds stayed where they were. I began to feel light-headed; everything around me was whirling. So I shed the cape and stood, meaning to run more quickly to the place where things were going to happen. That was when I saw Captain Alatriste come out into the courtyard.

Then everything happened with extraordinary speed. The shadow closest to me moved from its hiding place, starting toward Diego Alatriste at almost the same time I did. I held my breath as I followed it: one, two, three steps. At just that moment, God chose to shed his light on me, and parted the clouds. In the pale glow of the crescent moon I could clearly make out the back of a heavyset man moving forward with naked steel in his hand. I also saw the other two starting from their corners of the plaza. And as I held the captain's sword in my left hand and raised my right, armed with the pistol, I saw Diego Alatriste stop in the middle of the plaza, and caught the glint from his useless knife.

I took two steps more, and now the barrel of the pistol was nearly prodding the back of the man in front of me ... but he heard my footsteps and whirled about. I had time to see his face before I pulled the trigger and the pistol went off. The flash of the shot lighted features distorted with surprise. The roar of the gunpowder thundered through the Gate of Lost Souls.

The rest happened even more rapidly. I yelled, or thought I did, partly to alert the captain, and partly because of the terrible pain from the recoil of the weapon; it felt as if my arm had been torn from its socket. But the captain had more warning than he needed from the shot, and when I threw him his sword, over the shoulder of the man in front of me—or over the place where the man in front of me had been—he was already running toward it. He danced aside to avoid being hit, and picked it up the moment it touched the ground. Then, once again, the moon hid behind the clouds. I dropped the discharged pistol, pulled the other from my doublet, and turned toward the two shadows closing in on the captain.

I aimed, holding the pistol with both hands. But I was trembling so hard that the second shot went wild, and this time the recoil knocked me backward to the ground. As I fell, my eyes dazzled by the flash, I had a second's glimpse of two men with swords and daggers, and of Captain Alatriste, sword flashing, battling like a demon.

Diego Alatriste had seen them coming toward him before the first pistol shot. The moment he stepped outside he was watching for something of the sort, and he knew how futile it would be to try to save his hide with his ridiculous knife. The blast of the pistol had shocked him as much as it had the others, and for an instant he had thought he was the target. Then he heard my yell, and still not understanding what the devil I was doing there at such a late hour, he saw his sword flying toward him as if it had fallen from the skies. In the blink of an eye he had it in his hand, just in time to confront two furious, deadly blades.

It was the flash from the second shot that allowed him, once the ball went whizzing by between his attackers and himself, to size up the situation and prepare. Now he knew that one was on his left and the other straight ahead of him, forming an angle of approximately ninety degrees.

The role of the one was to keep him engaged as the other plunged a knife into his ribs or belly from the side.

Alatriste had found himself in similar situations before; it was not an easy task to combat one while protecting himself from another with only a short knife. His defense was to slash a wide swath from right to left, to cut into their space, although to protect his vulnerable left side he was forced to swing more to the left than to the right. The two attackers met move with move, so that after a dozen feints and thrusts they had traced a complete circle around him. Two oblique stabs had glanced off his buffcoat. The cling, clang of the Toledo blades sounded the length and breadth of the plaza, and I have no doubt that had the place been more inhabited, between that noise and my pistol shots the windows would have been filled with observers.

Then Fate, which like the winds of war, favors those who keep a clear head, came to the aid of Diego Alatriste. It was God's will that one of his thrusts went through the quillons of the sword guard and cut either the fingers or the wrist of the adversary at his left, who when he felt the wound, stepped back two paces with a "For the love of ..." By the time his opponent regrouped, Alatriste had already delivered three two-handed slashes, like three lightning bolts, against the other opponent, who had lost his balance and been forced by the violence of the attack to retreat.

That was all the captain needed to get his feet firmly set, and when the one who had been wounded on the hand advanced, the captain dropped the knife in his left hand, protected his face with his open palm, and lunging forward, thrust a good fourth of his blade into his opponent's chest. His victim's momentum did the rest: the sword drove through to the guard. The man cried out, "Jesus!" and dropped his sword, which clanged to the ground behind the captain.

The second swordsman, already on the attack, pulled up short. Alatriste leaped backward to pull his sword free of the first man—who had dropped to the ground like a sack of meal—and turned to face his remaining enemy, panting to catch his breath. The clouds had parted just enough to see, in the moonlight. . . the Italian.

"We are even now," said the captain, gasping for air.

"Delighted to hear that," the Italian replied, white teeth flashing in his dark face. The words were not yet out of his mouth when he made a quick, low thrust, as visible, and invisible, as the strike of an asp. The captain, who had studied the Italian carefully on the night of the attack on the two Englishmen, was waiting. He shifted to one side, and put out his left hand to parry the thrust, and the enemy sword plunged into thin air—although, as the captain stepped back, he became aware that he had a dagger cut across the back of his hand. Confident that the Italian had not severed a tendon, he reached to the left with his right arm, hand high and sword tip pointing down, parrying with a sharp ting! a second thrust, as surprising and skillful as the first. The Italian retreated one step, and again the two men stood facing each other, breathing noisily. Fatigue was beginning to affect both. The captain moved the fingers of his wounded hand, finding, to his relief, that they responded: the tendons were not cut. He felt blood, dripping warm and slow down his fingers.

"Can we not come to some agreement?" Alatriste asked.

The Italian stood in silence a moment. Then shook his head. "No," he said. "You went too far the other night." His throaty voice sounded tired. The captain could imagine that, like him, the Italian had had his fill.

"So now?"

"Now it is your head or mine."

A new silence. Alatriste's erstwhile accomplice made a slight move, and Alatriste responded, without relaxing his guard. Very slowly they circled, each taking the other's measure. Beneath the buffcoat, the captain could feel his shirt soaked in sweat.

"Will you tell me your name?"

"It has no bearing on this."

"You hide it, then—that is the sign of a scoundrel." Alatriste heard the Italian's harsh laugh. "Perhaps. Yet I am a live scoundrel, and you, Captain Alatriste, are a dead man."

"Not this night."

His adversary seemed to be taking stock. He glanced toward the inert body of his henchman. Then he looked at me, still on the ground beside the third of the figures who had been lurking in the plaza, and who was now stirring weakly. He must have been badly wounded by my pistol shot, for we could hear him moaning and asking for confession.

"No," concluded the Italian. "I believe you are right. This is not the night."

He seemed to be readying himself to leave, but as I watched, I saw him flip the dagger in his left hand from grip to blade. Then, all in the same movement, he flung it toward the captain, who somehow miraculously dodged it.

"Underhanded dog!" grunted Alatriste.

"Well, by God," the other responded. "You surely didn't think I would ask your permission."

Again the two swordsmen stood studying each other. The Italian ended that with a twirl of his blade, Alatriste responded with another, and again each cautiously raised his sword, and steel brushed steel with a faint metallic ching, before they lowered their swords again.

"Devil take it," the Italian sighed hoarsely. "There is no end to this." He began to back away from the captain, very slowly, his sword held horizontally between them. Only when he was safely away, almost at the corner post, did he turn his back.

"Incidentally," he called as he was fading into the shadows, "the name is Gualterio Malatesta. Did you hear? And I come from Palermo. I want that burned into your brain when I kill you!"

The man I had shot was still whimpering for confession. His shoulder was shattered, and splinters of his clavicle were protruding from the wound. Very soon, the Devil would be well served.

Diego Alatriste gave him a quick, impersonal look, went through his purse, as he had earlier with the dead man's, and then came over and knelt beside me. He did not thank me, or say any of the things one might expect would be said when a thirteen-year-old boy has saved a man's life. He simply asked if I was all right, and when I replied that I was, he tucked his sword beneath one arm and, putting the other around my shoulders, helped me to my feet. His mustache brushed my cheek for an instant, and I saw that his eyes, paler than ever in the light of the moon, were observing me with strange intensity, as if he were seeing me for the first time.

The dying man moaned again, again pleading for confession. The captain turned back, and I could see him thinking.

"Run over to San Andres," he said finally, "and fetch a priest for this miserable fellow."

I stared at him, hesitating; it seemed to me that I had glimpsed that bitter, ill-humored grimace on his lips.

"His name is Ordonez," he added. "I recognize him from Flanders."

Then he picked up the pistols and started off. Before I obeyed his orders, I went back to the carriage guard on the corner to look for his cape, then ran after him and handed it to him. He tossed it over one shoulder and lightly touched my cheek—with a show of affection unusual in him. And he kept looking at me with the same expression he had had when he asked if I was all right. Half embarrassed, half proud, I felt a drop of blood from his wounded hand drip onto my face.

IX. THE STEPS OF SAN FELIPE

A few days of calm followed that sleepless night. But as Diego Alatriste continued to refuse to leave the city, or hide, we lived in a perpetual state of alert; we might as well have been in a campaign. Staying alive, I discovered, can be much more tiring than letting oneself be killed, and requires all five senses. The captain slept more during the day than he did at night, and at the least sound—a cat on the roof, or the creak of wood on the stairs—I would awaken in my bed to see him in his nightshirt, sitting up in his, with the vizcaina or a pistol in his hand.

After the skirmish at the Gate of Lost Souls, he had tried to send me back to my mother for a while, or to the house of a friend. I told him that I had no intention of abandoning our camp, that his fate was mine, and that if I had been capable of getting off two pistol shots, I could fire

off another twenty if the occasion demanded. A position I reinforced by expressing my determination to run away from any place he might send me. I do not know whether Alatriste was grateful for my decision, for I have told you that he was not a man given to revealing his feelings. But at least I had made my point. He shrugged and did not bring up the matter again.

In fact, the next day I found a fine dagger on my pillow, recently purchased on Calle de los Espaderos: damascened handle, steel cross-guard, and a long, finely tempered blade, slim and double-edged. It was one of those daggers our grandfathers called a misericordia, for it was used to put caballeros fallen in battle out of their misery. That was the first weapon I ever possessed, and I kept it, with great fondness, for twenty years, until one day in Rocroi I had to leave it buried between the fastenings of a Frenchman's corselet. Which is actually not a bad end for a fine dagger like that one.

All the time that we were sleeping with one eye open, and jumping at our own shadows, Madrid was ablaze with celebrations occasioned by the visit of the Prince of Wales, an event that was by now official. There were days of cavalcades, soirees in the Alcazar Real, banquets, receptions, and masked balls, all topped off with a festival of "bulls and canes" in the Plaza Mayor that I remember as one of the most outstanding spectacles of its kind ever seen in our Madrid of the Austrias. The finest caballeros in the whole city—among them our young king—took part, wielding lances or pikes and pitting themselves against Jarama bulls in a glorious display of grace and courage. This fiesta of the corrida was, as it continues to be today, the favorite celebration of the people of Madrid—and of no few other places in Spain. The king himself, and our beautiful Queen Isabel—though a daughter of the great Henri IV, the Bearnais, and through him Elizabeth of France—were very fond of them. My lord and king, the fourth Philip, was known to be an elegant horseman and a fine shot, an aficionado of the hunt and of horses—once, in a single day, killing three wild boars by his own hand but losing a fine mount in the process. His sporting skills were immortalized in the paintings of Don Diego Velazquez, as well as in poems by many authors and poets such as Lope de Vega or Francisco de Quevedo. These lines by Don Pedro Calderon de la Barca are from his popular play La banda y la flor:

Shall I tell what gallant horseman

Decked out in high boots and spurs,

Arms at a pleasing angle, the hand

Held low to rein in his steed,

Cape neatly arranged, back

Ramrod-straight, eyes alert,

Trotted elegantly through the streets

Beside the carriage of the queen?

I have already said elsewhere that in his eighteenth or twentieth year, Philip was—and would be for many years—congenial, fond of the ladies, elegant, and beloved of his people. Ah, our good, mistreated Spanish people, who always considered their kings to be the most just and magnanimous on earth, even when their power was on the decline; even though the reign of the previous king, Philip the Third, had been brief, but with time enough to be calamitous left in the hands of an incompetent and venal favorite; and even though our young monarch, a consummate horseman, if lethargic and incapable in affairs of government, was at the mercy of the accomplishments and disasters—and there were many more of the latter—of the Conde, and later Duque, de Olivares.

The Spanish people—or at least what is left of them— have changed a great deal since then. Their pride and admiration for their king was followed by scorn; enthusiasm by acerbic criticism; dreams of greatness by deep depression and general pessimism.

I well remember"—and I believe this happened during the festival of the bulls honoring the Prince of Wales, or perhaps a later one—that one of the beasts was so fierce that it could not be hamstrung or slowed. No one—not even the Spanish, Burgundian, and German guards ornamenting the plaza—dared go near it. Then, from the balcony of the Casa de la Panaderia, our good King Philip, calm as you please, asked one of the guards for his harquebus. Without losing a whit of royal composure or making any grandiose gestures, he casually took the gun, went down to the plaza, threw his cape over his shoulder, confidently requested his hat, and aimed so true that lifting the weapon, firing it, and dropping the bull were all one and the same motion.

The public exploded in applause and cheers, and for months the feat was celebrated in both prose and verse. Calderon, Hurtado de Mendoza, Alarcon, Velez de Guevara, Rojas, Saavedra Fajardo, and Don Francisco de Quevedo himself—everyone at court capable of dipping a quill into an inkwell—invoked the Muses to immortalize the act and adulate the monarch, comparing him now with Jupiter sending down his bolt of lightning, now with Theseus slaying the bull at Marathon. I remember that Don Francisco's sonnet began with a clever wordplay, in which he combined the continent of Europe and the mythic figure of Europa.

In leaving dead the rapist of Europa,

Of whom you are lord, as monarch of Spain...

And the great Lope, addressing his lines to the charging bull eliminated by the royal hand, wrote:

Both blessing and tragedy was your death,

For, though life gave you no reason to live,

Greatness came with your dying breath.

This even though at that point in his life, Lope did not need to fawn on anyone. I tell these things that Your Mercies may see what Spain is, and what we Spaniards are like, how our good and gentle people have always been abused, and how easy, because of our generous impulses, it is to win us over, and push us to the brink of the abyss out of meanness or incompetence, when we have always deserved better. Had Philip IV commanded the glorious tercios of old, had he retaken Holland, conquered Louis XIII of France and his minister Richelieu, cleared the Atlantic of pirates and the Mediterranean of Turks, invaded England and raised the cross of Saint Andrew at the Tower of London and before the Sublime Porte, he could not have awakened as much enthusiasm among his subjects as he did with his elan in killing a bull.

How different from that other Philip IV, the widower with dead, weak, or degenerate sons, whom I myself would have to escort—along with his retinue—more than thirty years later across a deserted Spain devastated by wars, hunger, and misery, tepidly cheered by the few miserable peasants with energy enough to gather along the roadside. Bereaved, aged, head bowed, traveling to the border at the Bidassoa River to undergo the humiliation of delivering his daughter in marriage to a French king, and in so doing, sign the death certificate of that unhappy Spain he had led to disaster, squandering the gold and silver from America in vain frivolities, in enriching officials, clergy, nobles, and corrupt favorites, and in filling the battlefields of Europe with the graves of courageous men.

But it is not my wish to skip over years or events. The time I am writing about was still many years from such a dismal future, and Madrid still the capital of the Spains and the world. Those days, like the weeks that followed, and the months the engagement between our Infanta Maria and the Prince of Wales lasted, both town and court spent in entertainments of every nature. The most beautiful ladies and most genteel caballeros outdid themselves to fete the royal family and their illustrious guest during ruas along Calle Mayor and into El Prado park, and in elegant paseos through the gardens of the Alcazar, past the Acero fountain, and into the pine forests of the Casa de Carnpo, the royal country estate.

The strictest rules of etiquette and decorum between the courting pair were, naturally, respected; they were never alone for a moment, always—to the despair of the impetuous young swain—watched over by a swarm of major-domos and duennas. Indifferent to the quiet diplomatic tussles unleashed in the chancelleries—for or against the union—the nobility and the common people of Madrid tried to outdo each other in their homage to the heir to the English throne, and to the compatriots joining him at court. Tittle-tattle flew on street corners and in drawing rooms: the infanta was learning the English tongue, and Charles himself was studying Catholic doctrine with theologians, with the goal of embracing the true faith. Nothing was further from reality in regard to the latter, as would be proved later. But at the moment, and in such a climate of goodwill, whispers about the charm, consideration, and good looks of the young heir merely added to his popularity.

This reputation would later serve to offset the caprices and insolence of Buckingham, who, as he gained more confidence—he had just been named a duke by his king, James—and as both he and Charles came to realize that the negotiations for the marriage would be arduous and long, was revealing all the earmarks of a spoiled, bad-mannered, arrogant young man. Something that serious Spanish hidalgos found difficult to tolerate, especially in regard to three matters that were sacred at the time: protocol, religion, and women. Buckingham's uncouth behavior reached such an extreme that, on more than one occasion, only the hospitality and good breeding of our caballeros prevented their slapping the Englishman across the face with a glove in answer to some insolence or other, which would have led to settling the question with seconds and swords, at dawn, in El Prado park or at the Puerta de la Vega. As for the Conde de Olivares, his relationship with Buckingham went from bad to worse after the first days of obligatory political courtesy, and in the long run, after the engagement was dissolved, there were unfortunate consequences for Spanish interests.

Now that years have gone by, I wonder whether it would not have been better had Diego Alatriste skewered the Englishman that famous night, despite his scruples and no matter how noble the accursed heretic had showed himself to be. But who could have known? At any rate, our friend Buckingham would get his comeuppance in his own country, when some years later a Puritan lieutenant named Felton—upholding, they say, the honor of a certain Milady de Winter"—gave him what he deserved: more stabs in the gut than a missal has prayers.

Well, to sum up: Those particulars are plentiful in the annals of the epoch. I recommend them to the reader interested in more details, for they have no direct relation to the thread of this story. I shall say only, in regard to Captain Alatriste and myself, that we neither participated in the festivities, to which it had been thought best not to invite us, nor had any desire to do so, should the invitation have been given. The days after the altercation at the Gate of Lost Souls went by, as I have said, without incident, undoubtedly because the puppeteer pulling the strings was too occupied with the public comings and goings of Charles of Wales to tend to such small details—and when I speak of small details, I am referring to the captain and me.

We were aware, however, that sooner or later the bill would be delivered, and it would not be inconsequential. After all, however cloudy it may be, the shadow is always sewn to one's feet. No one can escape his own shadow.

This is not the first time I have referred to the mentideros devoted to gossip—meeting places for the idle and centers for all the news, rumors, and whispers that traveled around Madrid. There were three main mentideros—San Felipe, Losas de Palacio, and Representantes—and among these, the one in front of the Augustinian church of San Felipe, between Correos, Mayor, and Esparteros, was the most crowded. The steps were at the entrance to the church, and because the building was not on a level with Calle Mayor, they were higher than the street, leaving room beneath for a row of small shops, cubbyholes where toys, guitars, and trinkets were sold. Their roofs, in turn, formed an area paved with large flat stones: a kind of elevated promenade protected with railings. From that theater box one had a wonderful view of people and carriages passing by, and could comfortably stroll from one group to another.

San Felipe was the liveliest, noisiest, and most popular spot in Madrid. Its proximity to the Estafeta, the building that housed the royal mails, where letters and notices from the rest of Spain, indeed, the entire world, were received, as well as its location overlooking the principal street of the city, made it an ideal site for the great public party in which opinions and gossip were exchanged, soldiers preened, clergy spread tales, thieves pilfered purses, and poets aired their talent and wit. Lope, Don Francisco de Quevedo, and the Mexican Alarcon, among others, were regulars. Any news, rumor, or lie that originated there rolled like a ball gaining momentum; nothing escaped the tongues that knew everything, that shredded the reputations of everyone from king to lowest of low.

Many years later, Agustin Moreto mentioned San Felipe in one of his plays, when a countryman and a gallant military man meet:

"I see these steps are something you cannot leave!"

"These knowing stones have me bewitched,

My friends and I invariably leave enriched,

For nowhere in all the world have I

Encountered such a fertile ground for lies."

Even the great Don Miguel de Cervantes, may he sit forever at the right hand of God, wrote in his Voyage to Parnassus:

Farewell, San Felipe, the grand paseo,

Where if the Turk descends or the English menace,

I read of it in the gazette of Venice.

I quote these lines that Your Mercies may see just how famous the place was. In its cliques, the state of affairs in Flanders, Italy, and the Indies were argued with the gravity of a meeting of the Council of Castile. Jokes and witticisms were traded; the honor of ladies, actresses, and cuckolded husbands was besmirched; foul obscenities were directed toward the Conde de Olivares; and the amorous adventures of the king spread in whispers' from ear to ear.

It was, all told, a most pleasant and sparkling place, a font of wit, news, and wicked tongues that drew a gathering every morning about eleven. That lasted until the pealing of the church bell one hour after the noontime Angelus had stirred people in the crowd to remove their hats, stand respectfully, then drift away, leaving the field to the beggars, students, slatterns, and ragamuffins waiting for the soup from the charitable Augustinians. The steps came back to life in the evening, at the hour of the rua on Calle Mayor, where rumor-mongers and tale-bearers could watch the passing parade of coaches: fine ladies; women of questionable reputation who gave themselves the airs of ladies; and "schoolgirls" from nearby brothels—there was a notorious one, actually, right across the street—all of them a source of conversation, flirtation, and jest. That lasted until the call to evening prayer, when, after praying with hat in hand, people in the crowd again dispersed until the following day, each to his own home—and God to all of theirs.

I stated earlier that Don Francisco de Quevedo frequented the steps of San Felipe; and in many of his paseos he was accompanied by such friends as Licenciado Calzas, Juan Vicuna, or Captain Alatriste. His fondness for my master was based, among other factors, in practicality. The poet was always involved in quarrels rooted in jealousy and exchanging obscenities with various rivals—something very typical in that day, and in all epochs of this benighted country of ours, with its Cains, calumny, trickery, and envy, where words offended, even maimed, as surely as or more surely than the sword. Some, like Luis de Gongora and Juan Ruiz de Alarcon, were always belittling each other, and not merely for what they wrote.

Gongora, for example, said of Francisco de Quevedo:

Muse that babbles inanities

Can earn no ducats or hope to inspire;

His fingers know better to rob my purse

Than pluck at that unmelodious lyre.

And the next day it would be the other way around. Don Francisco would counterattack with his heaviest artillery:

This Gongora, who blasts a mighty fart,

This acme of vice and fanfaronade,

This asshole, in flesh and also in art,

Is a man even buggerers seek to evade.

And along with these lines, he fired off other verses, as famous as they were ferocious, that flew from one end of the city to another, portraying Gongora as filthy in both body and lineage.

In person—and breeding—so far from clean,

In fact, so precisely the opposite,

That never, as far as I have heard,

Did a word leave his mouth that wasn't shit.

Such sweet sentiments. He also turned out cruel lines aimed at poor Ruiz de Alarcon, whose physical impediment—a hunchback—he loved to deride with pitiless wit.

Sacks of meal on back and chest.

Who's the one with those effects?

Alarconvex!

Such verses circulated anonymously, in theory; but everyone knew perfectly well who had composed them— and with the worst intentions in the world. Naturally, other poets did not hold back: sonnets and decimas flew back and forth. To sharpen his claws, Don Francisco would read his aloud in the mentideros, attacking and counterattacking, his pen dipped in the most corrosive bile. And if he wasn't defiling Gongora or Alarcon, it might be anyone at all; for on those days when the poet woke up spewing vitriol, he fired randomly at anyone who moved.

In regard to those horns you are forced to wear,

Don Whoever You Be, who put them there?

Your unfaithful wife, and if they are trimmed

She will help you grow them all over again!

Lines of that nature. So many that even though Quevedo was courageous, and skillful with the sword, having a man like Diego Alatriste beside him when he strolled among prospective adversaries was comforting for him. And it happened that one morning when Don Francisco was out with Captain Alatriste, Senor Whoever You Be of the sonnet—or someone who saw himself so portrayed, because in God's Madrid the cuckolded walked in double lines—escorted by a friend, came up to seek an explanation on the steps of San Felipe. The matter was resolved at nightfall with a taste of steel behind the wall of Los Recoletos, so thoroughly that both the presumed betrayed husband, as well as the friend—once their respective chest wounds had healed—turned to prose and never looked at a sonnet for the rest of their lives.

That morning on the steps of San Felipe, the general topic of conversation was the Prince of Wales and the infanta, alternating with the latest rumors from court on the war, which was reviving in Flanders. I recall that it was a sunny day, and that the sky was very blue and clean above the roof tiles of the nearby houses, and that the mentidero was a beehive of activity. Captain Alatriste continued to show himself in public without apparent fear—and now the hand that had been bandaged after the affair at the Gate of Lost Souls had healed. That day he was unobtrusive in dark hose, gray breeches, and a doublet fastened to the neck, and although the morning was warm, he was also wearing a cape to cover the grip of the pistol stuck in the back of his belt, in addition to his usual dagger and sword. Unlike most of the veteran soldiers of the period, Diego Alatriste was not fond of colorful adornments or trim, and the only bright note in his ensemble was the red plume in the band of his wide-brimmed hat. Even so, his appearance contrasted with the sobriety of Don Francisco de Quevedo's dark clothing, brightened only by the cross of Santiago showing beneath the short cape, also black, that we called a herreruelo.

I had been allowed to accompany them, and had just run some errands at the Estafeta. The rest of the group had already gathered: Licenciado Calzas, Juan Vicuna, Domine Perez, and a few acquaintances who chatted at the railing of the steps overlooking Calle Mayor. The bone they were chewing was the latest impertinence of Buckingham, who—they had on good authority—had the brass to be disporting himself with the wife of the Conde de Olivares.

"Perfidious Albion!" declaimed Licenciado Calzas, who had not been able to abide the English for years. Once, returning from the Indies, he had come close to being captured by Walter Raleigh, a corsair who had splintered a mast and killed fifteen men.

"Harsh treatment," opined Vicuna, making a fist with his one remaining hand. "The only thing those heretics understand is harsh treatment. So that is how he repays the hospitality of our lord and king!"

Those grouped around him nodded circumspectly, among them two purported veterans with fierce mustaches who had never heard a harquebus fired in their lives; two or three idlers; a tall student from Salamanca named Juan Manuel de Parada, or de Pradas, who was wrapped in a threadbare cape and whose face spoke of hunger; a young painter recently arrived in Madrid and recommended to Don Francisco by his friend Juan de Fonseca; and a cobbler from Calle Montera named Tabarca, famous for leading the mosqueteros—the rowdy hoi polloi at the theater who stood in the open space at the back of the yard to watch the play, applauding or whistling their disapproval and thereby determining its success or failure. Although of lowly birth, and illiterate, this Tabarca was a man to be reckoned with. He presented himself as a supreme authority, an old Christian and hidalgo down on his luck—as nearly everyone was—and because of his influence among the rabble in the open-air theaters, he was flattered by authors attempting to make their name at court, and even by some who already had.

"At any rate," Calzas put in with a cynical wink, "I have heard that the wife of the favorite is not a bad judge of blades. And Buckingham is a fine specimen of a man."

Domine Perez was scandalized. "Please God, Senor Licenciado! Curb your tongue. I know the lady's confessor, and I can assure you that Sefiora dona Ines de Zufiiga is a pious woman. A saint."

"And saints," Calzas impudently replied, "always get a rise out of our king."

He laughed maliciously, watching the domine cross himself as he looked nervously around. For his part, Captain Alatriste was frowning at Calzas disapprovingly for speaking so frankly in my presence. The likable young painter named Diego de Silva, a Sevillano with a heavy accent, was observing us as if wondering what he had gotten himself into.

"With your leave, Your Mercies," he began timidly, lifting an index finger stained with oil paint.

But no one paid much attention to him. Despite his friend Fonseca's recommendation, Don Francisco de Quevedo had not forgotten that the minute the young artist reached Madrid, he had painted a portrait of Luis de Gongora, and although he had no reason not to like the youth, he meant to purge that capital sin by ignoring him for a few days. Although the truth is that Don Francisco and the young Sevillian were soon as thick as thieves, and the best portrait we have of the poet is precisely the one that the same young man later painted. Over time, he also became a very good friend to Diego Alatriste and to me, but that was when he was better known by his mother's family name: Velazquez.

Well, then. I was telling you that after the painter's unfruitful attempt to intervene in the conversation, someone brought up the question of the Palatinate, and everyone dived into an animated discussion of Spanish politics in central Europe, in which the cobbler Tabarca threw in his jack of spades with all the assurance in the world, giving his opinion on Maximilian of Bavaria, the Prince Elector of the Palatinate, and the Pope of Rome, who, it was generally agreed, had a secret agreement. One purported miles gloriosus (and here a bow to Plautus) swore that he had the latest word on the matter, passed on to him by a brother-in-law of his who served in the palace ... but that conversation was interrupted when all the men, except the domine, leaned over the railing to greet some ladies passing in an open carriage. Buried in a pouf of skirts, brocades, and farthingales, they were on their way to the silver shops at the Guadalajara gate: they were harlots, but very high-class harlots. In our Spain of the Austrias, even whores put on airs.

The men donned their hats again and continued their conversation. Quevedo, who was not listening very carefully, moved a little closer to Alatriste and pointed his bearded chin toward two individuals standing some distance away.

"Are they following you, Captain?" he asked in a low voice, looking off in the opposite direction. "Or are they following me?"

Alatriste chanced a discreet glance toward the pair. They had the look of bailiffs, or hired "problem solvers." When they realized they were being watched, they turned slightly away.

"I would say that they are following me, Don Francisco. But considering your verses, one never knows."

The poet looked at my master, frowning. "Let us suppose that it is you. Is it serious?"

"It may be."

"By my oath, it must be so. In that case there is no choice but to fight! Do you need my assistance?"

"No, not at the moment." The captain studied the swordsmen through half-closed eyes, as if attempting to engrave their faces in his memory. "Besides, you have enough trouble without taking on mine."

For a few seconds Don Francisco said nothing. Then he twirled his mustache and, after adjusting his eyeglasses, stared openly, angrily, at the two strangers. "In any case," he concluded, "if there is a challenge, two and two would make an even fight. You may count on me." "I know," said Alatriste.

"Ziss, zass.'We will take care of them." The poet rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, which was poking up the hem of his cape. "I owe you that much, and more. And my maestro is not exactly Pacheco."

The captain shared his malicious smile. Luis Pacheco de Narvaez was reputed to be the best fencing master in Madrid, having become the instructor of our lord and king. He had written several treatises on weapons, and once when he was in the home of the president of Castile, he had argued with Don Francisco de Quevedo about several points and conclusions. As a result, they took up swords for a friendly demonstration, and Don Francisco made the first move, striking Maestro Pacheco on the head and dislodging his hat. From that moment on, the enmity between the two men was legend: one had denounced the other before the tribunal of the Inquisition, and that one had portrayed him, with little charity, in The Life of a Petty Thief Named Pablos, which although it was printed two or three years later, was already circulating in manuscript copies throughout Madrid.

"Here comes Lope!" someone said.

To a man, they doffed their hats when the great Felix Lope de Vega Carpio was seen strolling toward them amid the greetings of people standing back to let him pass. He paused a few moments to converse with Don Francisco de Quevedo, who congratulated him on the play to be performed the next day in El Principe. Diego Alatriste had promised to take me to this important theater event, the first play I would see in my life. Then Don Francisco made some introductions.

"Captain Don Diego Alatriste y Tenorio ... You already know Juan Vicuna. . . . This is Diego de Silva. . . . The lad is Inigo Balboa, son of a soldier killed in Flanders."

When he heard that, Lope patted my head with a spontaneous gesture of sympathy. It was the first time I had seen him, although I would later have other opportunities. I will always remember him as a grave sixty-year-old with distinguished bearing, a dignified figure clad in clerical black, with a lean face, short, nearly white hair, gray mustache, and a cordial, somewhat distracted, almost weary smile that he bestowed on one and all before continuing on his way, surrounded by murmurs of respect.

"Do not ever forget that man or this day," the captain said, giving me an affectionate rap on the spot where Lope had touched me.

And I never forgot. Still today, so many years later, I put my hand to the crown of my head and feel the affectionate touch of the Phoenix of Geniuses. All of them—he, Don Francisco de Quevedo, Velazquez, Captain Alatriste, the miserable and magnificent epoch I knew—all are gone now. But in libraries, in books, on canvases, in churches, in palaces, streets, and plazas, those men left an indelible mark that lives on. The memory of Lope's hand will disappear with me when I die, as will Velazquez's Andalusian accent, the sound of Don Francisco's golden spurs jingling as he limped along, the serene gray-green gaze of Captain Alatriste. Yet the echoes of their singular lives will resound as long as that many-faceted country, that mix of towns, tongues, histories, bloods, and betrayed dreams exists: that marvelous and tragic stage we call Spain.

Neither have I forgotten what happened a little later. The hour of the Angelus was approaching and San Felipe was still buzzing when, just in front of the small shops below, I saw a carriage pull to a stop—a carriage I knew very well. I had been leaning on the railing of the steps, a little separated from my elders but close enough to hear what they were saying.

The eyes looking up—at me—seemed to reflect the color of the magnificent sky far above our heads. They were so blue that everything around me except that color, that sky, that gaze, evaporated from my consciousness. It was like a delectable torment of blueness and light, a lagoon that was impossible to pull myself from. If I am to die someday—I thought at that instant—this is how I want to die: drowning in that color. I eased a little farther away from the group and slowly went down the stairs, almost as if I had no will of my own, or had swallowed a philter brewed by Hypnos.

And as I walked down the San Felipe steps to Calle Mayor, I could feel upon me—for an instant, like a flash of lucidity in the midst of my rapture, from thousands of leagues away—the worried eyes of Captain Alatriste.

X. EL PRINCIPE CORRAL

I fell right into the trap. Or to be more exact, five minutes of conversation was all it took for them to bait it. Even now, after so many years, I want to believe that Angelica de Alquezar was just a girl manipulated by her elders, but not even knowing her as I later knew her can I be sure. Always, to the day of her death, I sensed in her something that no one can learn from another person: an evil, cold wisdom that you see in some women from the time they are girls. Even before that; perhaps for centuries. Deciding who was truly responsible for all that followed is another matter, one that would take a while to analyze, and this is not the place or time. We can sum it up by saying, for now, that of the weapons that God and nature gave woman to defend herself from the stupidity and baseness of man, Angelica de Alquezar had far more than her share.

The afternoon of the next day, on the way back from El Principe theater, I was remembering her as I had seen her the previous day at the window of the black carriage stopped beneath the steps of San Felipe. Something had struck a false note, as when, in a musical performance that seems perfect, you detect an uncertain chord. All I had done was go over and exchange a few words, enchanted by her mysterious smile and golden curls. Without getting out of the carriage, while her chaperone was occupied in purchasing a few items in the little shops and the coachman seemed absorbed with his mules—that alone should have put me on guard—Angelica de Alquezar again had thanked me for my help in scattering the ragamuffins on Calle Toledo, asked me how I was getting along with my Captain Batiste, or Triste, and inquired about my life and my plans. I strutted a little, I confess. Those wide blue eyes that seemed to take an interest in everything I was saying prodded me to say more than I should have. I spoke of Lope, whom I had just met on the steps, as if he were an old friend. And I mentioned my intention to attend El Arenal of Seville, the play being performed the next day at El Principe. We chatted a bit, I asked her name, and after hesitating a delicious instant, tapping her lips with a small fan, she told me.

"Angelica comes from 'angel,'" I commented, enslaved. She looked at me with amusement and said nothing for a long while. I felt as if I had been transported to the gates of Paradise. Then her chaperone returned, the coachman caught sight of me, slapped the reins, drove off, and I was left standing there, frozen among the passing parade, feeling as though I had been brutally ripped from some magical place.

Only later that night, when I could not sleep for thinking of her, and the next day on the way back from the theater, did some peculiar details occur to me. No well-brought-up girl was permitted to chat, right in plain sight, with young nobodies she scarcely knew. I began to sense that I was teetering on the brink of something dangerous and unknown. I even asked myself whether Angelica's attention to me could have been connected with the eventful hours of some nights earlier. However you looked at it, any relation between that blonde angel and the ruffians at the Gate of Lost Souls seemed unimaginable. Added to that, the prospect of attending a play by Lope had clouded my judgment. And that, says the Turk, is how God blinds those He wants to go astray.

From the monarch to the lowest townsman, in the Spain of Philip the Fourth, everyone had a burning passion for theater. The comedias had three jornadas, or acts, and were written in verse, in several meters and rhymes. Their hallowed authors, as we have seen in the case of Lope, were loved and respected, and the popularity of the actors and actresses was enormous. Every premiere or performance of a famous work brought out town and court, and through the nearly three hours each play lasted, the audience was in thrall. At that time, the productions usually took place in daylight, in the afternoon after the midday meal, in open-air venues know as corrales. There were two in Madrid: El Principe, also known as La Pacheca, and La Cruz. Lope preferred the stage of the latter, which was also the favorite of our lord and king, who loved the theater as much as his wife, Elizabeth of France, did. And just as much as our monarch loved theater, being especially fond of youthful adventures, he also loved, clandestinely, the beautiful actresses of the moment—chief among them Maria Calderon, or La Calderona, who gave him a son, the second Don Juan of Austria.

Expectation was high that day. One of Lope's celebrated comedias was playing at El Principe! Long before it started, animated groups of theatergoers were wending their way toward the corral, and by noon the narrow street on which it was then located—across from the convent of Santa Ana—was already crowded. The captain and I had met Juan Vicuna and Licenciado Calzas along the way; they, too, were great admirers of Lope's, and Don Francisco de Quevedo had joined us on the same street. So we all went on together to the gate of the theater, where it became nearly impossible to move among the crowd. Every level of society was represented: The elite occupied the boxes overlooking the stage and the benches and standing room for the public, while those further down the social ladder filled the tiers below the boxes and the wooden benches in the yard. Women sat in their own gallery, the cazuekv, the sexes were separated in the corral as in church. And behind a dividing barrier, the open yard was reserved for those who stood throughout the play: the famous mosqueteros, there with their spiritual leader, the cobbler Tabarca. When he passed our group he greeted us gravely, solemnly, puffed up with his own importance.

By two o'clock, Calle El Principe and the entrances to the corral were swarming with merchants, artisans, pages, students, clergy, scribes, soldiers, lackeys, squires, and ruffians who had dressed for the occasion in cape, sword, and dagger, all calling themselves caballeros and ready to clash over a place to watch the play. Added to that seething, fascinating commotion were the women, who swept into the cazuela amid a flurry of skirts, shawls, and fans, and were pinned like butterflies by the eyes of every gallant twirling his mustaches in the boxes and yard. The women, too, quarreled over their seats, and at times an official had to intervene and establish peace in the spaces reserved for them. Confrontations over someone's having slipped in without paying, and squabbles between the person who had reserved a seat and another person who claimed it frequently provoked a "How dare you?" backed with a sword, all of which demanded the presence of a magistrate and attending bailiffs.

Not even nobles were above these altercations. The Duque de Fera and Duque de Rioseco, disputing the favors of an actress, had once knifed each other in the middle of a play; they claimed that it was over their seats. Licenciado Luis Quifiones, a timid and good man from Toledo who was a friend of Captain Alatriste's and mine, described, in one of his irreverent ballads, the ambience that lent itself to slashing and stabbing:

They come to the corral de comedias

Pouring in like rain, and soaking wet.

But if they slip in without paying,

They leave streaming blood—and wetter yet!

Strange people, we. As someone would later write, confronting danger, dueling, defying authority, gambling life or liberty are things that have always been done, in every corner of the world, whether for hunger, hatred, lust, honor, or patriotism. But to put hand to sword, or to knife another being, merely to get into a theater performance was something reserved for the Spain of my youth. When good, it was very good, but when bad, far worse than bad. It was the era of quixotic, sterile deeds that determined reason and right at the imperious tip of a sword.

As we made our way to the corral, we had to thread through groups of early arrivals, and beggars harassing everyone who passed by. Of course, half of the blind, lame, amputee, and maimed were malingerers, self-proclaimed hidalgos brought down to begging because of an unfortunate accident. You had to excuse yourself with a courteous "I'm sorry, sir, I am not carrying any money" if you did not want to be berated in a most unpleasant fashion. The manner of begging is different among different peoples. The Germans beg in a group, the French are servile, reciting orisons and pleas, the Portuguese implore with lamentations, the Italians with long tales of misfortunes and ills, and the Spanish with arrogance and threats—saucy, insolent, and impatient.

We paid a quarter-maravedi at the entrance, three maravedis at the second door, for hospital charity, and twenty maravedis for a seat on the benches. Naturally our places were occupied, although we had paid a lot for them, but not wanting to get into a scuffle with me along, the captain, Don Francisco, and the others decided that we would sit at the back, close to the mosqueteros. I was wide-eyed, taking everything in, fascinated by the people, the vendors of mead and sweetmeats, the buzz of conversations, the whirl of farthingales, skirts, and petticoats in the women's galleries, the elegance of the well-to-do visible at the windows of their boxes. It was said that the king himself often sat there, incognito, when the play was to his taste. And the presence that afternoon of members of the royal guard on the stairs, not wearing uniforms but looking as if they were on duty, seemed to hint at that possibility.

We kept our eyes on the boxes, hoping to discover our young monarch there, or the queen, but we did not recognize any of the aristocratic faces that occasionally peered from between the lattices. The person we did see, however, was Lope himself, whom the public loudly applauded. We also glimpsed the Conde de Guadalmedina, accompanied by some friends and ladies, and Alvaro de la Marca, who responded with a courteous smile as Captain Alatriste touched the brim of his hat in greeting.

Some friends offered Don Francisco de Quevedo a place on a bench, and he excused himself and went to join them. Juan Vicuna and Licenciado Calzas were some distance away, discussing the work we were going to see, which Calzas had enjoyed years before at its first performance. As for Diego Alatriste, he was with me, having made a place for me on the barrier separating us from the open yard, so I could see without obstacle. He had bought fried bread with cinnamon and honey that I was crunching with delight, and had a hand on my shoulder to prevent me from being jostled off my place on the barrier. Suddenly I felt his grip tighten, and he slowly withdrew his hand and rested it on the pommel of his sword.

I followed the direction of his eyes, which had turned steely gray, and among the crowd made out the two men who had been lounging about on the steps of San Felipe the day before. They were standing in the pack of mosqueteros and I thought I saw them exchange some kind of sign with two other men who had taken up positions not too far away. The hats tilted to one side, the folded capes, the long curled mustaches and beards, a scar or two, and their way of cutting their eyes from side to side and standing with their legs planted firmly apart were sure signs of men acquainted with a knife. The corral was filled with such men, it is true, but those four seemed singularly interested in us.

I heard the thumps that signaled the start of the comedia, the mosqueteros shouted "Sombreros!" and then all doffed their hats. The curtain was drawn, and my attention flew like metal to magnet from the ruffians to the stage, where the characters of dona Laura and Urbana, both wearing cloaks, were entering. In front of the backdrop, a small pasteboard construction represented the Torre del Oro.

"Famous is El Arenal."

^“I must say I find you light."

"In my view, there cannot be In all the world a finer sight."

I still get a thrill when I remember those lines, the first I ever heard on the stage of a corral, and I remember even more clearly because the actress who played dona Laura was the very beautiful Maria de Castro, who was later to fill a certain space in the lives of Captain Alatriste and me. But that day in El Principe, she was the beautiful Laura, who accompanies her uncle Urbana to the port of Seville, where the galleys are about to set sail, and where, by chance, she meets Don Lope, and Toledo, his servant.

"I must make haste, my ship sails

Just following the ebb. Ah, what victory it is to flee

A scheming woman's web!"

Everything around me vanished; I was completely absorbed in the words coming from the mouths of the actors. Within minutes I was transported to El Arenal, madly in love with Laura, and wishing I had the gallantry of Captains Fajardo and Castellanos, and that I were the one crossing swords with the bailiffs and catchpoles before sailing off in the king's Armada, saying, as Don Lope does,

"I had to call upon my sword.

To honor an hidalgo who

Insults me, I must draw my sword;

A point of honor, it is true,

A code we have both lived since birth.

To refuse to duel a man who vents

His anger against you, even

A lunatic, if he gives offense,

Is not to give a man his worth."

It was at that moment that one of the spectators standing beside us turned toward the captain and hissed at him to be quiet, although he had not said a word. I turned, surprised, and saw that the captain was staring intently at the man who had hushed him, a rough-looking individual whose cape was folded four times over one shoulder and whose hand was on the grip of his sword.

The play continued, and I was again drawn into it. Although Diego Alatriste was neither talking nor moving, the man with the folded cape again hissed at him, muttering in a low voice about people who had no respect for the theater or for letting other people hear. I felt the captain's hand, which was again resting on my shoulder, softly push me to one side, and I noticed that he pulled back his cape a little, to uncover the handle of the dagger in a sheath at his left side. At that instant, the first act ended, the public burst into applause, and the captain and our neighbor bored holes into each other with their eyes, though for the moment things went no further. There was one ruffian on either side, and, a short distance away, the other four, who kept us firmly in their view.

During the dance performed in the entr'acte, the captain caught the eye of Vicuna and Calzas and put me in their care, using the pretext that I could see the second Jornada better from where they were watching. There was a sudden burst of deafening applause, and we all turned toward one of the upper boxes, where people had recognized our lord and king, who had quietly entered at the beginning of the previous act. For the first time, I saw his pale features, the blond wavy hair that fell over his brow and temples, and the mouth with the prominent lower lip so characteristic of the Hapsburgs, still bare of the straight beard he would later adopt. Our monarch was dressed in black velvet, with a starched ruff and discreet silver buttons—faithful to the decree of austerity at court that he himself had just issued—and in his slender hand, so pale the blue veins showed through the skin, he casually held a chamois glove, which he occasionally put to his mouth to hide a smile or words directed to his companions.

Among these the enthusiastic public had recognized, besides several Spanish gentlemen, the Prince of Wales and Buckingham, whom His Majesty—though maintaining official incognito—had thought it well to invite; all wore their hats, as if the king were not present. The grave sobriety of the Spaniards contrasted with the plumes, ribbons, bows, and jewels of the two Englishmen, whose bearing and youth were greatly celebrated by the public, and the source of no few compliments, fluttering of fans, and devastating glances from the women's cazuela.

The second act began. As during the first, I sat drinking in the actors' every word and gesture. Yet just as Captain Fajardo was saying,

" 'Cousin' he calls her. I do not know

If this cousin is a true one;

But she is not the first young girl

To be falsely claimed a cousin,"

the swaggerer with the cape over his shoulder once again hissed at Diego Alatriste, and this time he was joined by two of the other four troublemakers, who had inched closer during the entr'acte. The captain himself had played the same game more than once, so to him what they were doing was as clear as water, especially considering that the two remaining swashbucklers were now elbowing through the mosqueteros.

The captain looked around to assess the situation. It was significant that neither the magistrate nor the bailiffs who usually imposed order during performances were anywhere to be seen. As for other help, Licenciado Calzas was not a man-of-arms, and the fifty-year-old Juan Vicuna could not do much with just one hand. Don Francisco de Quevedo was two rows ahead of us, focused on the stage and unaware of what was brewing behind him. And the worst of it was that some of the public, influenced by the hissing of the provocateurs, began to scowl at Alatriste as if he truly were disturbing the performance. What was about to happen was as obvious as two and two make four. Or in that specific case, three and two make five. And five to one was too much, even for the captain.

Alatriste tried to ease toward the nearest door. If forced to fight, he could do so more freely outside than inside the theater, where in the time it takes to breathe "Jesus!" he was going to be stitched like a quilt by daggers. There were two churches nearby, where he could find sanctuary if the law intervened in time. But since the unholy five were already closing in, the business was taking an ugly turn.

That was the situation as the second act ended.

Applause resounded, and the insults of the miscreants grew louder. Now the rabble began to chime in. Words were exchanged, and the tone heated up.

Finally, between oaths and "By my lifes," someone uttered the word "blackguard." Then Diego Alatriste sighed deeply, down to his toes. That sealed it. With resignation, he gripped his sword and withdrew steel from scabbard.

At least, he thought fleetingly as he bared his blade, a couple of those whoresons would accompany him to Hell. Without even setting himself firmly, he cut a swath to the right to drive back the nearest ruffian, and reaching back with his left hand, he pulled the vizcaina from where it was sheathed over his kidneys. People around him scrambled to get out of the way, women in the cazuela screamed, and the occupants of the boxes leaned over the railing to see better. It was not unusual at that time, as I have said, for the entertainment to shift from the stage to the yard, so everyone settled in to enjoy a bonus performance; within moments, a circle had formed around the contenders.

The captain, sure that he could not long defend himself against five armed and skillful men, decided not to concern himself with the fine points of fencing; the best way to maintain his health was to impair that of his enemies. He took one stab at the man with the folded cape, and without stopping to see the result—which was not significant— he stooped low, hoping with his vizcaina to cut the hamstring of another opponent. If you do the arithmetic, five swords and five daggers add up to ten weapons slicing through the air, so the stabs and thrusts were raining down like hail. One came so close that it cut a sleeve of the captain's doublet, and another would have gone through his body had it not become tangled in his cape. Attacking right and left with coups and moulinets, Alatriste forced two of his adversaries to retreat, parried one with his sword and another with his knife, then felt the cold, sharp edge of a blade being drawn across his head. Blood streamed down between his eyebrows.

You are fucked, Diego, he told himself with a last shred of lucidity. This is it. And it was true, he felt exhausted. His arms were as heavy as lead, and he was blinded by blood. He raised his left hand, the one with the dagger, to swipe the blood from his eyes, and saw a sword pointed toward his throat. And in that same instant he heard Don Francisco de Quevedo yelling, "Alatriste! He's mine! He's mine!" in a voice like thunder. He had leaped from the benches to the barrier, and interposed his sword, blocking the deadly thrust.

"Five to two is a little better!" the poet exclaimed, sword raised, with a happy nod to the captain. "We have no choice but to fight!"

And in fact, he fought like the demon he was, Toledo sword tight in his grip, and completely unimpeded by his lameness. Undoubtedly verses and figures for the decima he would compose if he came out of this alive were racing through his mind. His eyeglasses had fallen to his chest and were dangling from their ribbon near the red cross of Santiago; he was sweating hard, ferociously venting the bile that he usually reserved for his verses but that on occasions like this he expressed with the point of his sword. His dramatic and unexpected charge subdued the attackers, and he even succeeded in wounding one of them with a good thrust that went through the band of the man's baldric and into the shoulder. Recovering from their shock, the attackers regained their focus and closed in again, and the battle continued in a whirlwind of steel. Even the actors came out on the stage to watch.

What happened next is history. Witnesses report that, in the box where the supposedly incognito king, Wales, Buckingham, and their train of courtiers were sitting, everyone was watching the altercation below with great interest, though with conflicting emotions. Our monarch, as was natural, was annoyed by the shameful affront to public order in his august presence, even though that presence was not official. But the young, daring, and chivalrous part of his being was not, in a deeper sense, greatly disturbed that his foreign guests were witnessing a spontaneous demonstration of courage on the part of his subjects, men whom, after all, they usually met on the field of battle.

One thing could not be disputed, and that was that the man fighting against five was doing so with unbelievable desperation and courage, and that after only a few slashes and thrusts he had drawn the sympathy of the audience and shouts of anguish among the ladies when they saw him so sorely pressed.

Our lord and king was torn, it was later reported, between protocol and enjoyment, and therefore was slow to order the head of his civilian-clad escort to intervene and put an end to the disturbance. And just as finally he opened his mouth to give a royal, uncontestable order, to everyone's surprise and admiration, Don Francisco de Quevedo, who was very well known at court, jumped resolutely into the fray.

But the greatest surprise was still to come. The poet had shouted the name Alatriste as he entered the tournament, and our lord and king, aghast at every new development, noticed that when Buckingham and Charles of England heard that name, they turned to look at each other with a start of recognition.

"Ala-tru-iste!" exclaimed the Prince of Wales, with his childish British pronunciation. And after leaning over the railing an instant, he quickly assessed the situation in the yard below, again turned to Buckingham, and then the king. In the days he had spent in Madrid he had had time to learn a few words and phrases of Spanish, and using them, he apologized and excused himself to the king.

"Diess-culpad, Si-yure.... I am indebted to that man. He saved my life."

Even as he spoke, as phlegmatic and serene as if he were at Saint James's Palace, he removed his hat, adjusted his gloves, and asking for his sword looked at Buckingham with perfect sangfroid.

"Steenie," he said.

Then, without hesitation, steel in hand, he raced down the stairs, followed by Buckingham, who was pulling out his sword. An astonished Philip did not know whether to stop them or go to the railing to watch, so that by the time he recovered the composure he had been so close to losing, the two Englishmen were already in the yard of the corral de comedias, crossing swords with the five men who had Francisco de Quevedo and Diego Alatriste boxed in.

It was a combat of which epics are made. Boxes, galleries, cazuela, benches, and yard—all stupefied to see Charles and Buckingham appear with weapons in hand—exploded with a roar of applause and shouts of approval. With that, our lord and king reacted, rose to his feet, turned to his courtiers, and ordered them to end the madness. As he gave the order, his glove dropped to the floor. And that, in someone who ruled forty-four years without ever raising an eyebrow or changing expression in public, betrayed how that afternoon in El Principe corral, the monarch of both the new world and the old came within an ace of revealing

emotion.

XI THE SEAL AND THE LETTER

Through a window that opened onto one of the large courtyards of the Alcazar Real, the crisp shouts of the Spanish, Burgundian, and German troops reached Diego Alatriste's ears as the guard was changed at the palace gates. There was a single carpet on the wood floor of the room, and on it an enormous dark table covered with papers, files, and books, as somber as the man seated behind it. This man was methodically reading letters and dispatches, one after another, and from time to time he wrote something in a margin with a quill he dipped into a Talavera pottery inkwell. He worked without stopping, as if ideas were flowing across the paper as smoothly as his reading, or the ink. This went on for a long while.

The man did not look up even when the head constable, Martin Saldana, accompanied by the sergeant and two soldiers of the royal guard who had brought Diego Alatriste through secret corridors, led him in and then withdrew. The man at the table continued dispatching letters, unperturbed, as if he were alone, so the captain had all the time in the world to study him. He was corpulent, with a large head and a ruddy face; coarse black hair fell over his ears, and his chin and cheeks were covered by a thick dark beard and enormous mustache. He was clad in dark blue silk trimmed with black braid, and his shoes and hose were black as well. On his chest blazed the red cross of Calatrava, which along with the white ruff and a handsome gold chain was the only contrast to his somber attire.

Although Gaspar de Guzman, third Conde de Olivares, would not be made a duke until two years later, he was enjoying his second year of favor at court. At age thirty-five, he was a grandee of Spain, and his power was enormous. The young monarch, much fonder of fiestas and hunting than of affairs of government, was a blind instrument in Guzman's hands, and any who might have overshadowed him were either crushed or dead. His former protectors, the Duque de Uceda and Fray Luis de Aliaga, favorites of the previous king, found themselves in exile; the Duque de Osuna was in disgrace, with his properties confiscated; the Duque de Lerma had escaped the gibbet thanks to his cardinal's robes—He whose cape is cardinal red will not hang by the neck until he's dead, was the old saying—and

Rodrigo Calderon, another of the principals in the former regime, had been executed in the public plaza. Now no one stood in the way of that intelligent, cultured, patriotic, and ambitious man's design to hold in his hands the strings of the empire that was still the most powerful on earth.

It is easy enough to imagine the emotions Diego Alatriste was experiencing as he stood before this all-powerful favorite of the king in that huge chamber in which, except for the table and carpet, the only decoration, mounted above a large unlighted fireplace, was a portrait of Philip the Second, grandfather of the present monarch. The captain's apprehension grew after he recognized in the man at the table—without the least doubt or pause to consider—the taller and stronger of the two masked men from that first night at the Santa Barbara gate. The same man whom the one with the round head had called Excellency before his superior left, after requesting that not too much blood be shed in the affair of the two Englishmen.

If only, the captain thought, the execution that lay in store for him would not be by garrote. It was not that dangling at the end of a rope was his cup of tea, either, but at least it was better than being removed with an ignominious tourniquet squeezing tighter and tighter around his neck, his face contorted as he heard the executioner say, "Forgive me, Your Mercy, I am only following orders."

May Christ unleash a thunderbolt to incinerate all the spineless lackeys who were "just following orders," and take with them the bastards who gave the orders as well. Not to mention the obligatory handcuffs, brazier, judge, reporter, scribe, and executioner needed to obtain a proper confession before speeding your disjointed body toward Hell. Diego Alatriste did not sing well with a rope around his neck, so his last serenade would be long and painful. Given a choice, he would have preferred to end his days with steel, fighting. That was, after all, the decent way for a soldier to make his exit: Viva Espana! and all that, and little angels singing his way in Heaven, or wherever he was to go.

"But not many blessings are being handed out these days," a worried Martin Saldana had whispered to him when he came to wake him at the prison that early morning and take him to the Alcazar.

"By my faith, it looks bad this time, Diego."

"I have had it worse."

"No. Not ever. The person who wants to see you allows no man to save himself by his sword."

Worse, Alatriste had nothing to fight with. Even the slaughterer's knife in his boot had been taken from him when he was imprisoned after the row in the corral de comedias, when the intervention of the Englishmen had at least prevented him from being killed on the spot.

"En pas ahora este-umos "—we're even now—Charles of England had said when the guard arrived to separate the contenders, or protect him, which in reality was one and the same. And after sheathing his sword, he, along with Buckingham, had turned away, acting as if he were completely unaware of the applause of an admiring public. Don Francisco de Quevedo was allowed to go, by the personal order of the king, who apparently had been pleased with his latest sonnet. As for the five swordsmen, two escaped in the confusion, one had been carried off gravely wounded, and the other two were arrested at the same time as Alatriste and put in the cell next to his. As the captain left that morning with Saldana, he had passed by that same cell. Empty.

The Conde de Olivares continued to focus on his correspondence, and the captain looked toward the window, with somber hope. That out might save him from the executioner and shorten the process, although a thirty-foot fall from the window to the courtyard might not be enough; he might merely expose himself to the torment of ending up injured but alive, and hoisted onto the mule to hang, broken legs and all, which was not a pretty picture. And there was yet another problem: What if there was Someone up there after all? He would hold Alatriste's jumping to his death against him all through an afterlife no less unpleasant for being hypothetical.

So if the bugles were blowing Retreat! it was better to go having had the sacraments, and dispatched by another hand. Just in case. When all was said and done, he consoled himself, however painful, and however long it takes to die, in the end you are just as dead. And he who dies finds rest.

He was mulling over these happy thoughts when he became aware that the court favorite had finished his task and had turned his attention to him. Those fiery black eyes seemed to be taking in every detail. Alatriste, whose doublet and hose showed the signs of the night spent in a cell, regretted that he did not present a better appearance. A clean bandage over the slash on his forehead would have helped, and water to wash away the dried blood on his face.

"Have you seen me before, do you think?"

Olivares's question caught the captain unawares. A sixth sense, something like the sound a steel blade makes when drawn over a whetstone, warned him to display exquisite caution.

"No. Never."

"Never?"

"I have said so, Excellency." "Not even during some public function?" "Well . . ." the captain stroked his mustache, as if trying hard to remember. "Perhaps ... in the Plaza Mayor, or at the Hieronymite convent . . . someplace like that." He nodded with what passed as thoughtful honesty. "That is possible, yes."

Olivares held his eyes, impassive. "No other time?"

"No, no other time."

For a very brief instant the captain believed he glimpsed a smirk in the favorite's thick growth of beard. But he was never sure. Olivares had picked up one of the files on his table and was leafing through the pages distractedly.

"You served in Flanders and Naples, I see here. And against the Turks in the Levant, and on the Barbary coast. A long life as a soldier."

"Since I was thirteen, Excellency."

"Your title of captain is, I imagine, unearned?"

"Not officially. I never rose above the rank of sergeant, and I was relieved of that after a . . . scuffle."

"Yes, that is what it says here." The minister kept riffling through the documents. "You quarreled with a lieutenant—in fact, you ran him through. I am surprised that you were not hanged for that."

"They were going to, Excellency. But that same day in Maastricht our troops mutinied. They had not been paid for five months. I myself did not join them, fortunately, so I had the opportunity to defend Field Marshal Miguel de Orduna from his own soldiers."

"You do not approve of mutinies?"

"I do not like to see officers murdered."

His questioner arched an eyebrow peevishly. "Not even those who intend to hang you?"

"One thing is one thing, and another, another."

"To defend your field marshal, it says here, you put away another two or three with your sword."

"They were Tudescos, Excellency. Germans. And the field marshal told me, 'Devil take it, Alatriste. If I am going to be killed by mutineers, at least let them be Spanish.' I agreed with him, lent a hand, and that won my pardon."

Olivares was listening attentively. From time to time he looked at the papers and then at Diego Alatriste thoughtfully.

"I see," he said. "There is also a letter of recommendation from the former Conde de Guadalmedina, and a draft from Don Ambrosio de Spinola signed in his hand, granting eight escudos extra pay for your good service in battle. Did you collect that?"

"No, Excellency. Generals give an order, and secretaries, administrators, and scribes execute it in their own manner. When I went to claim my escudos, they had been reduced to four, and even those I have not seen to this day."

The minister dipped his head slightly, as though he, too, had had bonuses or salaries withheld. Or perhaps he was approving the reluctance of the secretaries, administrators, and scribes to release public monies. He kept leafing through papers with the meticulousness of a clerk.

"Discharged after Fleurus because of a serious, and honorable, wound," Olivares continued. Now he focused on the bandage on the captain's head. "You have a certain propensity for getting wounded, I see."

"And for wounding, Excellency."

Diego Alatriste stood a little straighter, twisting his mustache. It was obvious that he did not like for anyone— not even the person who could have him immediately executed—to take his wounds lightly. Olivares noted the insolent spark in the captain's eyes, and then turned back to the document.

"So it seems," he concluded. "Although the references to your adventures apart from service to the flag are less exemplary than your military record. I see here a fight in Naples that involved a death. Ah! And also insubordination during the repression of the Moorish rebels in Valencia." He frowned. "Perhaps you did not agree with the decree of expulsion signed by His Majesty?"

The captain hesitated before answering. "I was a soldier," he said after a bit. "Not a butcher."

"I imagined you to be a better servant of your king."

"And I am. I have served him even better than I have God, for I have broken God's commandments, but none of my king's."

Again the favorite crooked an eyebrow. "I always believed that the Valencia campaign was glorious."

"Then you were ill informed, Excellency. There is no glory whatsoever in sacking houses, violating women, and cutting the throats of defenseless civilians."

Olivares's expression was impenetrable. "All of them enemies of the true religion," he pointed out. 'And unwilling to renounce Mohammed."

The captain shrugged. "Perhaps," he replied. "But that was not my fight."

"Come now"—the minister raised both eyebrows, with feigned surprise. "And to do murder for another party is?"

"I do not kill the young or the old, Excellency."

"I see. Which was why you left your company and enlisted in the galleys of Naples."

"Yes. Given the task of goring infidels, I preferred to do so against men who could defend themselves."

For a long moment, the once masked man sat without saying a word. Then he shifted his gaze to the papers on the table. He seemed to be turning Alatriste's last words over in his mind.

"Regardless of your record, however, it seems that there are men of quality who defend you," he said finally.

"Young Guadalmedina, for example. Or Don Francisco de Quevedo, who, just yesterday, in his usual bizarre behavior, decided to set his verbs in the active voice—although you know that associating with Quevedo can be a help or a hindrance, according to the ups and downs of his fortunes." Olivares paused—a significant pause. "It also appears that young Buckingham believes he is in your debt." An even longer pause followed. "And the Prince of Wales as well."

"I know nothing of that." Again Alatriste shrugged, his expression unchanged. "But yesterday those gentlemen did more than repay a debt, real or imaginary."

Slowly, Olivares shook his head. "Apparently not." He seemed vexed. "This very morning, Charles of England was interested enough to inquire about you and your fate. Even our lord and king, who is still stunned over what took place, wishes to be informed of the outcome." He abruptly pushed the file to one side. "This creates a troublesome situation. Very delicate."

Now Olivares looked at Diego Alatriste as if wondering what to do with him. "A shame," he went on, "that those five bunglers did not carry out their assignment better. Whoever paid them was on the right track. In a certain way, that would have solved everything."

"I am sorry that I do not share your regrets, Excellency."

"I shall take note of that. . ." The minister's gaze had changed; now it was even harder and more unreadable. "Is it true what they say, that a few days back you saved the life of a certain English traveler when a comrade of yours was about to kill him?"

Alarm. Sound the alarm with drumrolls and trumpets, thought Alatriste. This sudden shift was more dangerous than a night raid by the Dutch when an entire Spanish tercio was laid out snoring. Conversations like this could lead straight to having one's neck in a noose. At that moment he would not wager a pittance on his neck.

"Your Excellency must be mistaken. I do not remember such a happening."

"Well, it would be to your benefit to remember."

The captain had been threatened many times in his life, and in addition he was sure he would not emerge unscathed from this contest. So being lost in either case, he did not flinch. But that did not stand in the way of his choosing his words with great care.

"I do not know whether I saved anyone's life," he said after thinking a moment. "But I do recall that when I was hired for a certain service, my principal employer said that he did not want any deaths."

"Truly? That is what he said?"

"Yes, his very words."

Olivares's penetrating pupils were pointed at the captain like the bore of a harquebus. "And who was that principal?" he asked with dangerous softness.

Alatriste did not blink. "I have no idea, Excellency. He wore a mask."

Now Olivares observed the captain with renewed interest. "And if those were your orders, how is it that your companion dared go further?"

"I do not know what companion you are referring to, Excellency. But in any case, other gentlemen who accompanied that pre-eminent senor later gave different instructions."

"Others?" The minister seemed very interested in that plural. '"Sblood! I would like to have their names. Or their descriptions."

"I am afraid that is impossible. You will already have noticed, Excellency, that I have great problems with my memory. And the masks ..."

He watched as Olivares struck the table, venting his impatience. The look that he gave Alatriste, though, was more evaluating than menacing. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind.

"I am beginning to have my fill of your bad memory. And I warn you that there are executioners capable of making the strongest man sing a tune."

"I beg of Your Excellency, look at me. Carefully."

Olivares, who had done nothing else, frowned, both irritated and surprised. From his expression, Alatriste believed that he was going to call the guard and have him removed and hanged at that moment. But he did nothing. He did not comment or speak, but only stared at the captain's face, as requested. Finally, something in the firm chin or the cold, gray-green eyes, which had not blinked once during the examination, seemed to persuade him.

"Perhaps you are right," he nodded. "I would be willing to swear that you are the sort who forgets. Or does not talk." He stared pensively at the papers on the table. "I have matters to attend to," he said. "I hope you will not mind waiting here a while more."

He got up then, and went to a bell-pull near a wall and tugged it once. Then he sat down again, and paid no further attention to the captain. Alatriste's sense that he knew the individual who answered the bell increased as soon as he heard his voice. By my life . . . ! This, he mused, was beginning to resemble a reunion of old friends. The only ones needed to complete the crew were Fray Emilio Bocanegra and the Italian swordsman. The man before him had a round head, on which floated a few graying brown hairs. All his hair was sparse: the sideburns halfway down his face, the thinly trimmed beard from lower lip to chin, and the scraggly mustache curling over cheeks streaked with red veins, like the ones on his fat nose. He was wearing black, and the embroidered cross of Calatrava on his chest did nothing to improve the vulgarity of his appearance. His wilted ruff was far from clean, as were the ink-stained hands that resembled those of an amanuensis who had hit a run of good fortune; only the heavy gold ring on the little finger of his left hand spoke to his privileged state. The eyes, though, were sharp and intelligent, and the knowing, critical arch of the left eyebrow lent a crafty, dangerous tone to the expression—first surprised and then cold and scornful— that crossed his face when he saw Diego Alatriste.

It was none other than Luis de Alquezar, private secretary to king Philip the Fourth. And this time he was wearing no mask.

"To sum up," said Olivares. "We are dealing here with two conspiracies. One intended to give a lesson to certain English travelers and to relieve them of a bundle of secret documents. And another intended simply to assassinate them. Of the first I had some knowledge, I seem to remember. . . . But the second is practically new to me. Perhaps you, Don Luis, as secretary to His Majesty and an expert observer in certain ministerial offices at court, may have heard something?"

The favorite of the king had spoken very slowly, taking his time and leaving long pauses between his sentences, and never taking his eyes off the man he had summoned. The secretary stood before Olivares, wary, occasionally sneaking a glance at Diego Alatriste. The captain had stepped to one side, wondering where the devil all this was going to end. A gathering of shepherds, and one dead sheep? Or about to be.

Olivares had stopped talking and was waiting. Luis de Alquezar cleared his throat.

"I fear I will be of very little help to Your Eminence," he said, and in his meticulously cautious tone showed his discomfort at Alatriste's presence. "I, too, had heard something about the first conspiracy. As for the second ..." He looked at the captain and his left eyebrow rose in a sinister arch, like an upraised Turkish scimitar. "I do not know what this, ahem, person, may have told you."

Olivares's fingers drummed impatiently on the table. "This, ahem, person, has said nothing. He is waiting here for me to deal with another matter."

Luis de Alquezar was slow to speak, processing what he had just heard. Once it was digested, he looked toward Alatriste, and then Olivares again.

"But. . ." he began.

"There are no buts."

Alquezar again cleared his throat. "As Your Eminence has set forth such a delicate subject in the presence of a third party, I thought that. . ." "You thought wrongly."

"Forgive me." The secretary looked at the papers on the table with an uneasy expression, as if expecting to find something alarming in them. He had paled noticeably. "But I do not know whether before a stranger I should . .."

The favorite of the king lifted an authoritative hand. Alatriste, who was watching closely, would have sworn that Olivares was enjoying himself.

"You should."

Alquezar swallowed four times and again cleared his throat, this time noisily. "I am always at the service of Your Eminence." His skin went from an extreme pallor to a sudden flush, as though he were suffering attacks of cold and heat. "What I can imagine of that second conspiracy . . ."

"Try to imagine every detail, I beg you."

"Of course, Your Eminence." Alquezar's eyes were still futilely scrutinizing the minister's papers; his instinct as a functionary impelled him to seek in them the explanation of what was happening to him. "As I was saying, all I can imagine, or suppose, is that certain interests crossed paths along the way. The Church, for example?"

"The word 'church' is very broad. Were you referring to someone in particular?"

"Very well. There are some who have secular, as well as ecclesiastic, power. And they fervently disapprove of a heretic's—"

"I see," the minister interrupted. "You were referring to saintly men like Fray Emilio Bocanegra, for example."

Alatriste saw the king's secretary repress a sudden start.

"I have not named the holy father," said Alquezar, regaining his composure. "But now that Your Eminence has seen fit to mention him, I would say yes. By that I mean that, in fact, Fray Emilio may be one of those who does not look kindly upon an alliance with England."

"I am surprised that you did not come to consult me, if you were harboring such suspicions."

The secretary sighed, venturing a discreet conciliatory smile. The longer the conversation continued, and he tested which tack to take, the more artful and sure of himself he seemed to be.

"Your Eminence is aware of how it is at court. It is difficult to survive—walking the line between Tynans and Trojans, you know. There are influences. Pressures. Besides, it is well known that Your Eminence is not among those who favor an alliance with England. It was, actually, all in your best interests."

"By His wounds, Alquezar! I swear to you that for such 'services' I have had more than one man hanged." Olivares's glare bored through the royal secretary like a lethal musket ball. "Although I imagine that the gold of Richelieu, of Savoy and Venice, would not have persuaded anyone otherwise."

The royal secretary's complicit and servile smile vanished as if by magic. "I cannot know to what Your Eminence is referring."

"You do not know? How curious. My spies have confirmed the delivery of an important sum of money to some person at court, but without identifying the recipient. All this makes things a little clearer for me."

Alquezar placed a hand on the embroidered cross of Calatrava. "I pray that Your Eminence does not believe that I..."

"You?" Olivares gave a dismissive wave, as if to brush away a fly, causing Alquezar to smile with relief. "I do know what you have to gain in this business. After all, everyone knows that I myself named you private secretary to His Majesty. You enjoy my trust. And although recently you have obtained a certain power, I doubt that you were sufficiently bold to think of conspiring to effect your own reward. Is that not true?"

The confident smile was no longer as firm on the secretary's lips. "Naturally, Your Eminence," he said in a low voice.

"And especially," Olivares continued, "not in matters involving foreign powers. Fray Emilio Bocanegra can emerge from this unscathed, since he is a man of the Church with influence at court. But it may cost others their heads."

As he spoke these words he threw a terrible and meaningful glance toward Alquezar.

"Your Eminence knows"—the royal secretary was nearly stuttering, and was again turning pale—"that I am completely loyal."

The minister's expression was one of profound irony. "Completely?"

"Yes, Your Eminence, that is what I said. Loyal. And useful."

"But let me remind you, Don Luis, that I have cemeteries filled with 'completely' faithful and useful collaborators."

In his mouth, that pronouncement sounded even more dark and threatening. The Conde de Olivares picked up his quill with a distracted air, holding it as though preparing to sign a death sentence. Alatriste saw Alquezar follow the movement of the pen with agonized eyes.

"And now that we are speaking of cemeteries," the minister interjected suddenly, "I want you to meet Diego Alatriste, better known as Captain Alatriste. Have you met him?"

"No. I mean to say-that, ahem . . . That I am not acquainted with him."

"That is the good thing about dealing with discreet parties. No one knows anyone."

Again Olivares seemed about to smile. Instead he pointed his quill toward the captain.

"Don Diego Alatriste," he said, "is an honorable man with an excellent military record—although a recent wound and bad fortunes have placed him in a delicate situation. He seems brave and trustworthy. . . . 'Solid' would be the proper term. There are not many men like him, and I am sure that with a little luck he will know better times. It would be a shame to find ourselves forever deprived of his potential services." He sent a penetrating glance toward the secretary to the king. "Do you not find that true, Alquezar?"

"Very true," the secretary hastened to confirm. "But with the kind of life that I imagine he leads, this Senor Alatriste exposes himself to many dangers. An accident, or something of the kind. No one can be responsible for that."

Having spoken, Alquezar directed an angry look at the captain.

"Oh, I can. I will be responsible," said the king's favorite, who seemed to be very comfortable with the direction the interview was taking. "And it would be well if on our parts we do nothing to precipitate such an unpleasant outcome. You do share my opinion, do you not, Senor Royal Secretary?"

"Oh absolutely, Your Eminence." Alquezar's voice was trembling with rage.

"It would be very painful for me."

"I understand."

''Extremely painful. Almost a personal affront."

Alquezar's contorted face suggested that bile was shooting through his system by the pint. The frightening grimace that distorted his mouth was intended to be a smile.

"Of c-course," he stammered.

The minister raised a finger, as if he had just recalled something, shuffled through the papers on the table, plucked out one of the documents, and handed it to the royal secretary.

"Perhaps it would add to your peace of mind if you yourself expedited this matter. This paper is signed by Don Ambrosio de Spinola personally, and requests that Don Diego Alatriste be paid four escudos for services in Flanders. That will, for a time, save him from having to draw his sword to earn a living. Do I make myself clear?"

Alquezar held the paper with the tips of his fingers, as if it were coated in poison. He looked toward the captain, wild-eyed, as though about to suffer a stroke. His teeth gritted with anger and spite.

"As clear as water, Your Eminence."

"Then you may return to your duties."

And without looking up from his papers, the most powerful man in Europe dismissed the secretary to the king with a wave of the hand.

When they were alone, Olivares looked up and held Captain Alatriste's eyes for a long moment. "I am not going to offer an explanation, nor do I have any reason to do so," he said gruffly.

"I have not asked an explanation of Your Excellency."

"Had you done so, you would be dead by now. Or on your way to being so."

Then silence. The king's favorite had risen to his feet and was walking toward the window, where he could see clouds threatening rain. He seemed to be concentrating on the guards in the courtyard. Hands crossed behind his back, standing against the light, he looked even more dark and forbidding.

"Whatever else," he said without turning, "you can thank God that you are still alive."

"It is true that it surprises me," Alatriste replied. "Especially after all I have just heard."

"Supposing that in fact you heard something."

"Supposing."

Still without turning, Olivares shrugged his powerful shoulders. "You are alive simply because you do not deserve to die. At least not for the matter at hand. And also because there are those who have your interests at heart."

"I am grateful to them, Excellency."

"Do not be." The favorite moved away from the window, and his footsteps echoed on the parquet floor. "There is a third reason. There are those for whom your being alive is the gravest blow I can impose at this moment." He took a few more steps, nodding, pleased. "People who are useful to me because of their venality and ambition. But at times that same venality and ambition causes them to fall into the temptation of acting in their own behalf, or that of someone other than myself. What can one do? With upright men, one may win battles, perhaps, but not govern kingdoms. At least not this one."

He stood pensively regarding the portrait of the great Philip the Second above the fireplace; and after a very long pause he sighed deeply, sincerely. Then he seemed to remember the captain, and whirled toward him.

"As for any favor I may have done you," he said, "do not crow. Someone has just left this room who will never forgive you. Alquezar is one of those rare astute and complex Aragonese of the school of his predecessor, Antonio Perez. His one known weakness is a niece of his, still a girl, a menina in the palace. Guard yourself against him as you would against the plague. And remember that if for a while my orders can keep him in line, I have no power at all over Fray Emilio Bocanegra. Were I in Captain Alatriste's place, I would quickly heal my wound and return to Flanders as soon as possible. Your former general, Don Ambrosio de Spinola, is set to win more battles for us. It would be very considerate if you got yourself killed there, and not here."

Suddenly, Olivares seemed tired. He looked at the table strewn with papers as though in them he saw his condemnation, a long and fatiguing sentence. Slowly he sat down and faced them, but before he bade the captain farewell, he opened a secret door and took out a small ebony box.

"One last thing," he said. "There is an English traveler in Madrid who for some incomprehensible reason feels he is obligated to you. His path and yours, naturally, will in all probability never cross again. That is why he charged me to give this to you. Inside is a ring with his seal and a letter that—well, would you expect otherwise?—I have read. It is a kind of directive and bill of exchange that obliges any subject of His Britannic Majesty to lend aid to Captain Diego Alatriste should he ever have need. It is signed Charles, Prince of Wales."

Alatriste opened the black wood box with the ivory-inlaid lid. The ring was gold, and was engraved with the three plumes of the English heir. The letter was a small sheet folded four times, bearing the same seal as the ring, and written in English. When Alatriste looked up he saw that the favorite was watching him, and that between his ferocious beard and mustache gleamed a melancholy smile.

"What I would not give," said Olivares, "to have a letter like that."

EPILOGUE

The sky above the Alcazar threatened rain, and the heavy clouds blowing from the west seemed to rip apart on the pointed spire of the Torre Dorada. Sitting on a stone pillar on the royal esplanade, I covered my shoulders with the captain's old herreruelo, the short cape that served me for warmth, and continued to wait, never taking my eyes off the gates of the palace from which the sentinels had already chased me three times.

I had been there a very long while: ever since early morning, when I was roused from my uncomfortable dozing in front of the prison where we had spent the night— the captain inside and I out—and I had followed the carriage in which Constable Saldana had driven the captain to the Alcazar and taken him in through a side gate. I had not eaten a bite since the night before, when Don Francisco de Quevedo, before turning in—he had been recovering from a scratch suffered during the skirmish—came by the prison to inquire about the captain. When he found me huddled at the exit, he went to a nearby tavern and bought me a little bread and dried beef. The truth is, this seemed to be my destiny: a good part of my life with Captain Alatriste was spent waiting for him, expecting the worst. And always with my stomach empty and dread in my heart.

A cold drizzle began to moisten the large paving stones of the royal esplanade, little by little turning into a fine rain that drew a gray veil across the facades of nearby buildings and traced their reflections on the wet stones beneath my feet. I entertained myself by watching them take shape. That was what I was doing when I heard a little tune that sounded familiar to me, a kind of ti-ri-tu, ta-ta. Among the gray and ocher reflections stretched a dark, motionless stain. When I looked up, there before me, in cape and hat, was the unmistakable, somber figure of Gualterio Malatesta.

My first inclination when I saw my old acquaintance from the Gate of Lost Souls was to take to my feet, but I did not. Surprise left me so paralyzed and speechless that all I could do was sit there quietly, and not move, as the dark, gleaming eyes of the Italian nailed me to the spot. Afterward, when I could react, I had two specific and nearly opposite thoughts. One: Run. Two: Pull out the dagger I had hidden in the back of my waistband, covered by the cape, and try to bury it in our enemy's tripe. But something about him dissuaded me from doing either. Although he was as sinister and menacing as ever—lean, sunken-cheeked face marred by scars and pox marks—his attitude did not signal imminent danger. And in that instant, as if someone had swiped a line of white paint across his face, a smile appeared.

"Waiting for someone?"

I sat there on my stone pillar, staring at him. Drops of rain ran down my face, and rain collected on the broad brim of the Italian's felt hat and in the folds of his cape.

"I believe he will be coming out soon," he said in that muffled, hoarse voice, observing me all the while. I did not answer this time, either, and after a moment of silence, he looked over my shoulder and then all around, until his eyes settled on the facade of the palace.

"I was waiting for him, too," he added pensively, eyes now fixed on the palace gate. "For reasons different from yours, of course."

He seemed in a spell, almost amused by some aspect of the situation. "Different," he repeated.

A carriage passed. Its coachman was wrapped in a waxed cloth cape. I took a quick look to see whether I could make out the passenger. It was not the captain. At my side, the Italian was observing me again, that funereal smile still on his face.

"Have no fear. I have been told that he will come out on his own two feet. A free man."

"And how would you know that?"

My question coincided with a cautious movement of my hand toward the back of my waistband, a move that did not pass unnoticed by the Italian. His smile grew broader.

"Well," he said slowly. "I was waiting for him too. To give him a gift. But I have just been told that my gift is no longer necessary ... at least for the moment... . They are releasing him sine die?

The distrust on my face was so clear that the Italian burst out laughing, a laugh that sounded like wood splintering: crackling, coarse.

"I am going now, boy. I have things to do. But I want you to do me a favor. A message for Captain Alatriste. You will give it to him?"

I continued to watch him distrustfully, but did not say a word. Once more he looked over my shoulder, and then to either side, and I thought I heard him sigh very slowly, as if deep within. There, motionless, dressed all in black, beneath the rain that was steadily growing heavier, he too seemed tired. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps evil men tire, just as loyal, feeling men do. After all, no one chooses his destiny.

"Tell your captain," said the Italian, "that Gualterio Malatesta has not forgotten that there is unfinished business between us. And that life is long—until it ends. Tell him, too, that we will meet again, and that on that occasion I hope to be more skillful than I have been till now, and kill him. With no heat or rancor, just calm, and with as much time as it takes. In addition to being a professional matter, this is personal. And as professional to professional, I am sure that he will understand perfectly. Will you give him the message?" Again that bright slash crossed his face, dangerous as a lightning bolt. "By my oath, you are a good lad."

He stood there, absorbed, staring at an indeterminate point in the shimmering gray reflections of the plaza. He made a move as if to leave, but stopped short.

"That other night," he added, still gazing toward the plaza, "at the Gate of Lost Souls, you did very well. Those point-blank pistol shots. Dio mio. I suppose that Alatriste must know that he owes you his life."

He shook the droplets of water from the folds of his cape and wrapped it tightly about him. His jet-black eyes finally stopped on me.

"I imagine that we will see each other again," he said, and began to walk away.

But after only a few steps, he turned back toward me. "Although, you know what I should do? I should finish you off now, while you are still a youngster. Before you become a man and kill me!"

Then he spun on his heel and walked away, once again the black shadow he had always been. And through the rain, I heard his laughter growing faint in the distance.

A SELECTION FROM

A POETRY BOUQUET

BY VARIOUS LIVELY

MINDS OF THIS CITY

Printed in the XVII century, lacking the printer's mark, and conserved in the Nuevo Extreme? Ducal Archive and Library, Seville

ATTRIBUTED TO DON FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO

In Praise of Military Virtue in the Person of Don Diego Alatriste

Sonnet

You, Diego, whose sword so nobly defends

The name and honor of your family,

As long as you are blessed with life to live,

You will battle every enemy.

You wear the tunic of an old brigade,

And with God's help, you wear it without stain.

Your scruples are so uncompromising

That you will never let it be profaned.

Courageous on the bloody battlefield,

In days of peace, still more honor you acquire.

And in your heart and mind there breathes such fire

That to empty boasting you will never yield.

In your faith and constancy you are so strong

You will embody virtue your whole life long.

On the Same Subject in the Satiric Mode

Decima

In Flanders soil he drove a pike.

He drove even more, to wit,

He drove a Frenchman to take flight,

Screaming that he'd been badly hit.

Oh, he made a sorry sight.

Piteous how that man ran.

A foe may suddenly appear,

But I find I have naught to fear:

For in Ghent there is no better man

Than Alatriste, our brave capitan.

CONDE DE GUADALMEDINA

On the Sojourn of Charles,

Prince 0f Wales, in Madrid

Sonnet

As he would win the fair infanta's hand,

The Prince of Wales came boldly to her land.

Whereon he found that such an enterprise

Is won not by the rash, but by the wise.

To win his suit, he swooped down one fine day,

Like an eagle, certain of his prey,

But found a troth, alas! will have no weight

When abrogated by affairs of state.

Thus Charles learned about diplomacy:

In the rough seas of the Spanish court

The most dauntless pilot may be brought up short.

As a dashing prince, similarly,

Will not wear upon his brow the wreath

Unless he persevere to his last breath.

FROM THE SAME HAND

To the Lord of La Torre de Juan Abad

with Similes from the Lives of the Saints

Rhymed octave

Behind good Roch, lame supplicant,

Behind Ignatius, chivalrous and valiant.

Behind Dominic, in combating a Protestant,

Behind John Chrysostom, so famously eloquent,

Behind Jerome, in learning and Jewish cant,

Behind Paul, the tactful and prudent,

Finally comes Quevedo, behind even Thomas,

And for every target, he brings his harquebus.