Purity Of Blood Part 2

"A pox on him."

But it was true. In a time when hatred of Jews and heretics was considered an indispensable component of faith-only a few years earlier, the aforementioned Lope, as well as good don Miguel de Cervantes, had crowed over the expulsion of the Moors-don Francisco de Quevedo, who prided himself on being an old Christian from Santander, was not exactly noted for his tolerance of anyone whose purity of blood was dubious. On the contrary, he often used that theme when aiming darts at his adversaries-and especially don Luis de Gongora, to whom he attributed Jewish blood.

Why should Greek be a tongue you debase?and not Hebrew? We know you master that,it is as clear as the nose on your face.

The great satirist liked to intersperse such compliments with allusions to Gongora's sodomy, as he did in a certain famous sonnet that concludes, Your legs are worse than my poor two.I limp, it's true, but they do not gothe places your third leg leads you to.

Yet here he was, getting his own hands dirty: don Francisco Gomez de Quevedo y Villegas, he of the habit of Santiago and proven family purity, lord of la Torre de Juan Abad, scourge of Judaizers, heretics, sodomites, and a.s.sorted Latinate court poets, risking life and honor, plotting nothing less than to violate the sanct.i.ty of a cloister in order to aid a family of Valencian conversos. conversos. Even I, at my tender age, recognized the terrible implications. Even I, at my tender age, recognized the terrible implications.

"A pox on him, by Christ," the poet repeated.

I suppose that any sane man would be swearing-in Greek, even Hebrew, both languages that don Francisco was familiar with-had he found himself in Quevedo's starched white collar. And Captain Alatriste, who was not in Quevedo's gorget, but faced ruin enough in his own, was well aware of that.

The captain had not moved from his place against the wall throughout the conversation with our visitors, and his thumbs were still hooked over his belt. He had not s.h.i.+fted position even when Jeronimo de la Cruz returned to the room, dagger in hand, leading me by the ear. Alatriste merely ordered the man to release me, in a tone that inspired my captor, after only an instant's hesitation, to obey. As for me, the awkward moment past, I was huddled in a corner, still red with embarra.s.sment, trying to pa.s.s unnoticed. It had taken a certain effort to convince the father and sons that although disobedient, I was a prudent lad and could be trusted. Don Francisco himself had to speak for me. But the beans had been spilled-I had heard everything-and don Vicente de la Cruz and his sons would have to put their faith in me. Although when it came down to it-as the captain clarified very deliberately, casting cold, intimidating looks at each of the three in turn-this was no longer a situation in which they could offer an opinion or have a choice. That declaration was followed by a long and weighty silence, after which my involvement was not questioned again.

"They are good people," Quevedo said finally. "And blood or no blood, no one can accuse them of not being good Catholics." He paused in search of further justification. "And when we were in Italy, don Vicente performed a number of services for me. It would have been wicked not to hold out a hand to him."

Captain Alatriste nodded his understanding, and beneath his military mustache I could see the same irrepressible smile.

"All that you say is well and good," the captain acknowledged. "But I press my point about Gongora. After all, Your Mercy is constantly dwelling on his Semitic nose and his aversion to the flesh of the pig. You remember when you wrote, "No white shows in your hair,so old Christian you cannot be:sonofa something, no question there,but son of pure blood? A mockery."

Don Francisco smoothed his mustache and goatee, half pleased that the captain remembered his verses, and half annoyed by the bantering way he recited them.

"By the good Christ, Alatriste, what a good-and, I might add, badly timed-memory you have."

Alatriste burst out laughing, unable to contain himself any longer, which did not improve the poet's humor.

"I can just imagine what your enemy will write," said the captain, beating a dead horse, holding his fingers as if he were writing on air.

"You say, don Francisco, I am a filthy Jewish pig,while you dance to the tune of a lively Hebrew jig...

"What do you think?"

Don Franciso's face grew even more dour. Were it not Diego Alatriste speaking, his tormentor would have tasted steel some time ago.

"Bad, and with very little flair," was all he said, dispiritedly. "Those lines could, in fact, have been written by that Cordovan sodomite, or that other friend of yours, the Conde de Guadalmedina, whose behavior as a caballero I do not contest, but who as a poet is the mortification of Parna.s.sus. As for Gongora, that puerile a.s.shole, that proparoxytonic, euphistic versifier, that dabbler in vortices, tricliniums, promptuaria, and vacillating Icaruses, that shadow on the sun and eructation of the wind...he is the last thing that worries me now. I do fear, however, that I have brought you into a bad business." He gripped the jug of wine more tightly and took another swig, glancing in my direction. "And the lad."

The lad-that is, I-was still in the corner. The cat had strolled past me three times, and I had made every effort to get in a good kick, with little success. I saw that Alatriste, too, was looking at me, and he was no longer smiling. Finally he shrugged his shoulders.

"The lad lad got himself into it," he declared calmly. "As for me, do not concern yourself." He pointed to the pouch of gold got himself into it," he declared calmly. "As for me, do not concern yourself." He pointed to the pouch of gold escudos escudos in the center of the table. "They have paid, and that eases all cares." in the center of the table. "They have paid, and that eases all cares."

"Perhaps."

The poet did not seem convinced, and Alatriste's lips again twisted with irony.

"What the devil, don Francisco. It is a little late for regrets, now that you've already got me dressed for the ball."

Dejected, the poet took a swallow, and then another. His eyes had begun to water.

"But to turn a convent upside down," he said, underscoring the obvious, "is not a trifling matter."

"Nor is taking La Goleta, pardiez! pardiez!" The captain strode to the table, where he picked up his pistol and removed the primer and charge. "They tell that my mother's great-uncle, a man well known in the day of Charles the Fifth, broke into a convent one day in Seville."

Don Francisco looked up, interested. "Was he one who inspired Tirso's play?"

"So they say."

"I was not aware that you were related."

"Well, now you know it. Spain is a pocket handkerchief: here everyone knows everyone, and all roads cross."

Quevedo's eyegla.s.ses were dangling from their cord. Thoughtful, he held them a moment but did not place them on his nose. Instead, they dropped from his fingers to again hang above the embroidered cross on his chest, and he reached instead for the wine. He drank a long, last draught, gazing lugubriously at the captain over the lip of the jug.

"Well, by the good Christ, I venture that your uncle, that trickster Don Juan, had a bad third act."

III. MADRID STEEL

The next morning found me at ma.s.s with Diego Alatriste and Senor de Quevedo, a rather momentous event. Don Francisco, both because of his Santander heritage and his cross of Santiago, felt it a point of honor to fulfill the rituals of the Church, but the captain was not moved a hair by a Dominus Dominus or a or a vobisc.u.m. vobisc.u.m. It is, however, only fair to point out that for all his oaths, moderate in themselves, for all the blasphemy and By G.o.ds, only standard in his former profession, never in all the years I spent at his side did I hear Alatriste speak a word against religion. Not even when, in the Tavern of the Turk, his friends' controversial comments left Domine Perez in the middle and no maxim with a breath of life. Alatriste did not practice Catholicism but he respected tonsures, robes, and wimples in the same way that he respected the authority and the person of ourlord and king. Perhaps it was his discipline as a soldier, or it may have been the stoic indifference that seemed to govern his moods and his character. A further detail: though he so seldom attended ma.s.s himself, the captain always obliged me to pay my dues to G.o.d every Sunday and feast day, whether in the company of Caridad la Lebrijana-like all former wh.o.r.es, La Lebrijana was extremely pious-or Domine Perez. And two days a week, at Alatriste's insistence, the good priest taught me grammar, a little Latin, and enough catechism and Sacred History that, as the captain said, no one would take me for a Turk or an accursed heretic. It is, however, only fair to point out that for all his oaths, moderate in themselves, for all the blasphemy and By G.o.ds, only standard in his former profession, never in all the years I spent at his side did I hear Alatriste speak a word against religion. Not even when, in the Tavern of the Turk, his friends' controversial comments left Domine Perez in the middle and no maxim with a breath of life. Alatriste did not practice Catholicism but he respected tonsures, robes, and wimples in the same way that he respected the authority and the person of ourlord and king. Perhaps it was his discipline as a soldier, or it may have been the stoic indifference that seemed to govern his moods and his character. A further detail: though he so seldom attended ma.s.s himself, the captain always obliged me to pay my dues to G.o.d every Sunday and feast day, whether in the company of Caridad la Lebrijana-like all former wh.o.r.es, La Lebrijana was extremely pious-or Domine Perez. And two days a week, at Alatriste's insistence, the good priest taught me grammar, a little Latin, and enough catechism and Sacred History that, as the captain said, no one would take me for a Turk or an accursed heretic.

He was a man of many contradictions. Not much later, in Flanders, I had occasion to see him kneeling with bowed head as the tercios tercios were preparing for combat and the chaplains were going up and down the rows blessing all the men. He did not do it to affect piety but, rather, to show respect for comrades who were going off to die believing in the efficacy of the whole rigmarole. Alatriste's G.o.d was neither placated by laud nor offended by oaths; He was a powerful and dispa.s.sionate being who did not manipulate the puppets on the stage of life, but merely observed them. And it was also He who, with reasons incomprehensible to the actors in the human comedy-why not just call it a farce-operated the stage machinery, causing lethal trapdoors to open or revolving panels to s.h.i.+ft suddenly, sometimes imprisoning you in shackles and other times-a literal were preparing for combat and the chaplains were going up and down the rows blessing all the men. He did not do it to affect piety but, rather, to show respect for comrades who were going off to die believing in the efficacy of the whole rigmarole. Alatriste's G.o.d was neither placated by laud nor offended by oaths; He was a powerful and dispa.s.sionate being who did not manipulate the puppets on the stage of life, but merely observed them. And it was also He who, with reasons incomprehensible to the actors in the human comedy-why not just call it a farce-operated the stage machinery, causing lethal trapdoors to open or revolving panels to s.h.i.+ft suddenly, sometimes imprisoning you in shackles and other times-a literal deus ex machina deus ex machina-extracting you from the most dire situations. It might all be due to that long-ago prime motion and efficient cause that Domine Perez mentioned one fine afternoon when he had been a bit too free with the sweet wine and was attempting to explain Saint Thomas's five proofs to us. But as for the captain, his interpretation of the matter was possibly closer to what the Romans-if I am not deceived by the Latin I learned from that same domine domine-called fatum. fatum.

I remember a taciturn Alatriste, when enemy artillery was creating significant lacunae in our ranks, and all around, fellow soldiers were making the sign of the cross, commending themselves to Christ and the most blessed Virgin. Suddenly you heard them reciting prayers they had learned as children, and the captain murmuring "Amen" along with them, so they would not feel alone when they fell to the ground and died. His cold, gray-green eyes nevertheless were fixed on the undulating rows of the enemy cavalry, on the musket fire issuing from the terreplein of a dike, on the smoking bombs that snaked across the ground before exploding in a burst that left the Devil well supplied. It was evident that "Amen" did not bind him in any way, as one could read in the absorbed gaze of an old soldier attentive only to the monotonous drumroll from the center of the tercio, tercio, a beat as slow and calm as the tranquil pace of the Spanish infantry and the serene beating of his heart. Because Captain Alatriste served G.o.d as he served his king. He had no reason to love G.o.d, even to admire Him, but being who he was, he afforded the deity his respect. a beat as slow and calm as the tranquil pace of the Spanish infantry and the serene beating of his heart. Because Captain Alatriste served G.o.d as he served his king. He had no reason to love G.o.d, even to admire Him, but being who he was, he afforded the deity his respect.

One day when we had taken a bellyful of steel and shot on the banks of the Merck River, near Breda, I saw Alatriste do battle for a flag and the corpse of our field marshal. And I know that although he was willing to sacrifice his hide-and for good measure mine-for that dead body sieved by musket b.a.l.l.s, he did not give a fig for either don Pedro de la Daga or or the flag. That was what was puzzling about the captain: he could show respect for a G.o.d who did not matter to him, fight for a cause in which he did not believe, get drunk with an enemy, or die for an officer or a king he scorned. the flag. That was what was puzzling about the captain: he could show respect for a G.o.d who did not matter to him, fight for a cause in which he did not believe, get drunk with an enemy, or die for an officer or a king he scorned.

Yes, we went to ma.s.s, although the motive was far from pious. The church, as Your Mercies will undoubtedly have suspected, was the one attached to the convent of La Adoracion. Las Benitas was near the palace and almost straight across from the convent of La Encarnacion, which was next to the small plaza of the same name. Las Benitas's eight-o'clock ma.s.s was in vogue, for that was where Teresa de Guzman, the wife of the Conde de Olivares, came to wors.h.i.+p. Furthermore, the chaplain, don Juan Coroado, had a reputation for cutting a fine figure before the altar and preaching a fine homily from the pulpit. So the church was frequented not only by truly religious women but also by ladies of good breeding, drawn there by the Condesa de Olivares or by the chaplain, and by other women who had no breeding at all, but pretended to. Even harlots and flamboyant actresses-as pious in matters of dogma as the next-dropped in with the required devotion, thickly powdered and rouged beneath the folds of their mantillas and fine black silks, and dripping with laces from Lorraine and Provence-those from Flanders being reserved for ladies of greater substance. And since the presence of so many ladies, genteel or otherwise, drew more males than lice to a muleteer's doublet, the famed eight-o'clock ma.s.s filled the small church from altar to atrium. Some female wors.h.i.+pers had eyes only for G.o.d, while others sent volleys of Cupid's darts flying above their fans. Gallants lurked behind columns or beside the font to offer the ladies holy water; beggars sat on the steps outside the door, exhibiting their sores and pustules and the mutilations supposedly earned in Flanders, even Lepanto, and wrangling over the best places at the exit from the ma.s.s, ready to berate arrogantly, as their right, the caballeros and damas who gave themselves airs but would not allow a wretched copper coin to see the light of day.

The three of us positioned ourselves near the door, at a spot from which we could survey both the nave of the church and the choir, and the iron lattice that divided the church from the convent. At that moment, the nave was so jammed with people that had there been only one or two more, the Christ on the main altar would have had to be portrayed hanged, arms at his side, rather than crucified. I watched the captain, hat in hand and cape over his arm, study the plan of the building, just as, when we reached the church, his alert eyes had registered every detail of the garden walls and the facade of the convent. The ma.s.s had progressed to the liturgy of the word, and when the celebrant turned to the a.s.sembly I was at last able to see the face of the renowned chaplain Coroado, who was reeling off Latin with eloquence, finesse, and aplomb. He seemed to be well favored, elegant beneath the chasuble, thick black hair tonsured and trimmed at the nape of his neck. His eyes were dark and penetrating, and it was not difficult to imagine their effect upon the daughters of Eve, especially in the case of nuns whose order closed off all contact with the world and the opposite s.e.x.

I was incapable of looking at the man without thinking of everything I knew about him, and about the convent in which he made a dressing gown of his ca.s.sock. I must apologize for mentioning the ill feeling and indignation caused by his ritualized performance, the fatuous unction with which he celebrated Christ's sacrifice. I was astounded that no one among the a.s.sembly shouted out "sacrilege," or "hypocrite," and that I saw nothing around me but devotion, even admiration, in the eyes of many women. But that is the way of life, and that was but one of the first times, among no few to come, that I was taught a useful lesson about how appearances trump truth, and how villains hide their vices behind masks of piety, honor, and decency. And that to denounce evildoers without proof, attack them without weapons, trust blindly in reason or justice, is often the fastest road toward one's own perdition, while the scoundrels who use influence or money as a s.h.i.+eld remain untouched. Another lesson that I learned early on is that it is a grave error to align our fortunes with those of the powerful, for we are more certain to lose than to win. Better to wait, not rush or flounder about, until time or chance brings the adversary within range of our blade: something that in Spain-here, sooner or later, we all go up and come down the same stairway-is normal, even inevitable and expected. And if not, patience. After all, G.o.d has the last word; He shuffles all the cards.

"Second chapel on the left," whispered don Francisco. "Behind the grille."

Captain Alatriste, whose eyes were focused on the altar, stood riveted a moment longer, then turned to look in the direction the poet indicated. I followed his gaze toward the chapel that connected the church with the convent, where the black-and-white headdresses of nuns and novices could be glimpsed through the heavy iron lattice, to which, apparently, because of the severity of the cloister rules, spikes had been added to keep any man from approaching too closely. That was our Spain: severe rigor and ceremony, all intimidating spikes, divisive grilles, and grand facades. In the midst of the disasters in Europe, the Cortes of Castile were arguing the dogma of the Immaculate Conception, while predatory priests, nuns without calling, officials, judges, n.o.bles-every mother's son-were quietly raking in fortunes. Indeed, the nation that was mistress of two worlds was becoming the courtyard of the master thief Monipodio, providing an opportunity for larceny and envy and a paradise for go-betweens and Pharisees, all patched together with honors, bought consciences, widespread hunger, and unrestrained wickedness to ease it along.

"What do you think, Captain?"

The poet had spoken very quietly, taking advantage of the moment the paris.h.i.+oners were reciting the profession of faith. In one hand he held his hat, and the other hand was on the pommel of his sword; he was staring straight ahead with a deceptively abstracted air, as if he had nothing but the liturgy on his mind.

"Difficult," Alatriste replied.

The poet's deep sigh blended into the Deum de Deo, lumen de lumine, Deum verum de Deo vero, Deum de Deo, lumen de lumine, Deum verum de Deo vero, which the communicants were praying in chorus. A little farther away, in the shelter of a column, attempting to pa.s.s as un.o.bserved among the crowd as a thief in a circle of scribes, I saw the elder son of don Vicente de la Cruz, the one who had discovered me when the traitorous cat startled me in my hiding place. His face was partially m.u.f.fled and he was staring toward the nuns' chapel. I wondered whether Elvira de la Cruz was there, and if she could see her brother. The natural romanticism of a youth of my years shot off after the image of that young girl I had never met, but whom I imagined to be a beautiful, tormented prisoner awaiting liberation. The hours in her cell must have become interminable, waiting for a signal, a message, a note announcing that she should be ready to escape. Spurred by my imagination, which flowed so freely at moments that it made me feel like a hero in a book of chivalry-after all, fate which the communicants were praying in chorus. A little farther away, in the shelter of a column, attempting to pa.s.s as un.o.bserved among the crowd as a thief in a circle of scribes, I saw the elder son of don Vicente de la Cruz, the one who had discovered me when the traitorous cat startled me in my hiding place. His face was partially m.u.f.fled and he was staring toward the nuns' chapel. I wondered whether Elvira de la Cruz was there, and if she could see her brother. The natural romanticism of a youth of my years shot off after the image of that young girl I had never met, but whom I imagined to be a beautiful, tormented prisoner awaiting liberation. The hours in her cell must have become interminable, waiting for a signal, a message, a note announcing that she should be ready to escape. Spurred by my imagination, which flowed so freely at moments that it made me feel like a hero in a book of chivalry-after all, fate had had made me a part of this enterprise-I squinted hard, trying to pick out Elvira behind the iron latticework that shut her off from the world, and after a moment I saw white fingertips rest for an instant between the heavy bars. I stood there a long time, enchanted, openmouthed, hoping to see the hand appear again, until a well-disguised pinch on the nape of my neck snapped me out of my reverie. Then, against my will, I turned and looked straight ahead, as discreet as anyone could wish. And when the celebrant turned toward us to say made me a part of this enterprise-I squinted hard, trying to pick out Elvira behind the iron latticework that shut her off from the world, and after a moment I saw white fingertips rest for an instant between the heavy bars. I stood there a long time, enchanted, openmouthed, hoping to see the hand appear again, until a well-disguised pinch on the nape of my neck snapped me out of my reverie. Then, against my will, I turned and looked straight ahead, as discreet as anyone could wish. And when the celebrant turned toward us to say "Dominus vobisc.u.m," "Dominus vobisc.u.m," I looked at his hypocritical face, and without blinking responded, I looked at his hypocritical face, and without blinking responded, "Et c.u.m spiritu tuo," "Et c.u.m spiritu tuo," with such devotion and piety that had my poor old mother seen and heard me, she would have rejoiced. with such devotion and piety that had my poor old mother seen and heard me, she would have rejoiced.

We left with the Ite, missa est. Ite, missa est. A splendid sun was s.h.i.+ning, heightening the colors of the geranium and caraway plants at the windows of La Encarnacion across the street. Don Francisco lagged behind, for he knew everyone in Madrid-he had as many friends as enemies-and was enjoying flirting with some of the ladies and conversing with their companions, peering between them from time to time to catch a glimpse of the captain and me as we strolled alongside the wall of Las Benitas's garden. I noticed that the captain was paying special attention to a small door, locked from inside, in the brick wall that was ten feet tall at that point. He also took note of a carriage guard at the corner that would make it possible for someone with sufficient agility to leap over the top. I watched as his keen eyes studied the little door as if he were searching for breaches in an enemy wall. I knew he was interested because he was making that gesture so typical of him: stroking his mustache with two fingers, a sign that usually-reflectively or angrily-preceded putting a hand to his sword when someone was beginning to try his patience. It was at this juncture that the elder son of don Vicente de la Cruz, his hat pulled low on his forehead, caught up with us, though he gave no sign of recognizing us. I observed, however, by the way he was walking and guardedly looking around, that he too was inspecting Las Benitas's walls. A splendid sun was s.h.i.+ning, heightening the colors of the geranium and caraway plants at the windows of La Encarnacion across the street. Don Francisco lagged behind, for he knew everyone in Madrid-he had as many friends as enemies-and was enjoying flirting with some of the ladies and conversing with their companions, peering between them from time to time to catch a glimpse of the captain and me as we strolled alongside the wall of Las Benitas's garden. I noticed that the captain was paying special attention to a small door, locked from inside, in the brick wall that was ten feet tall at that point. He also took note of a carriage guard at the corner that would make it possible for someone with sufficient agility to leap over the top. I watched as his keen eyes studied the little door as if he were searching for breaches in an enemy wall. I knew he was interested because he was making that gesture so typical of him: stroking his mustache with two fingers, a sign that usually-reflectively or angrily-preceded putting a hand to his sword when someone was beginning to try his patience. It was at this juncture that the elder son of don Vicente de la Cruz, his hat pulled low on his forehead, caught up with us, though he gave no sign of recognizing us. I observed, however, by the way he was walking and guardedly looking around, that he too was inspecting Las Benitas's walls.

At that moment a small incident occurred that I relate here because it is a good example of Diego Alatriste's nature. We had paused a moment as the captain pretended to be adjusting his belt in order to examine the lock of the door, when we were overtaken by a foursome leaving ma.s.s: a pair of foppish young men accompanying two rather common, but beautiful, women. One of the men, the one wearing a velvet doublet with slashed sleeves, a mult.i.tude of ribbons and bows, and a silver-embroidered band around the crown of his hat, b.u.mped into me and then, ill-humoredly, shoved me aside, calling me a little p.i.s.sant. I was not as yet carrying a dagger, because of my youth, but a few years later that discourtesy would have cost him, however well dressed he might be, a stab in the groin with the dagger. Soon, in Flanders, I would carry one as if I'd never been without it.

But at that time I still had no choice but to eat insults without seasoning and without recourse, unless Captain Alatriste determined to take my defense upon himself. Which is precisely what he did, and I must tell you that his actions led me to consider that, despite his often surly ways and silences, the captain held me in esteem. And if Your Mercies will forgive me, I will say that he had good reason, pardiez, pardiez, considering certain pistol shots I had fired on his behalf some time ago at the Gate of Lost Souls. considering certain pistol shots I had fired on his behalf some time ago at the Gate of Lost Souls.

The fact is that when he heard this dandy debase me, the captain turned, slowly, serenely. On his face was the look of glacial calm that those who know him consider fair notice that it is advisable to take three steps back.

"By G.o.d, inigo"-the captain seemed to be speaking to me, although he was staring hard at the offender-"I do believe that this caballero has confused you with some rogue of his acquaintance."

I said nothing, not a word, for it was obvious what was happening. The c.o.xcomb, hearing himself addressed, had stopped, and his companions with him. He was the kind of man who uses his own shadow as a kind of mirror. At the captain's "By G.o.d," he had placed a white hand displaying a large gold and diamond ring upon the guard of his sword, and with the evident sarcasm of that "caballero," his fingers drummed a tune on the pommel. His arrogant eyes looked Diego Alatriste up and down. When he had completed the inspection, however-after noting the captain's sword with the guard scratched and nicked from other blades, the battle scars on his face, the cold eyes beneath the broad-brimmed hat-the arrogance was not quite as noticeable as it had been.

Even so, he replied. "And what happens," he said disagreeably, "if I am not not confused and if I confused and if I am am certain of what I say...eh?" certain of what I say...eh?"

His answer had sounded firm, which was in the man's favor, although that final hesitation had not escaped me, nor the swift glances he threw toward his companion and the two ladies. In those days, a man might well let himself be killed for the sake of his reputation, and the only things that could not be forgiven were cowardice and dishonor. After all, honor was supposed to be the exclusive patrimony of the hidalgo; and the hidalgo, unlike the plebeian who bore all the tributes and taxes, neither worked nor contributed to the royal treasury. The famous plays of Lope, Tirso, and Calderon often made reference to the chivalric tradition of earlier centuries, but what actually set the tone of the society was the prevalence of scoundrels and swindlers of every stripe. Those hyperboles of honor and dishonor glossed over the business-quite serious, of course-of living without working or paying taxes.

Very slowly, taking his time, the captain ran two fingers over his mustache. And then, with the same hand, without ostentation or exaggeration, he pulled back his cape, further exposing, in addition to his sword, the dagger he wore over his kidney, on the left side.

"What happens," Alatriste replied in measured tones, "if you are not confused? Well, perhaps Your Mercies may find the troublemaker whom I am sure you have mistaken for this lad, if you will come along with me to the de la Vega gate."

The de la Vega gate, which was not far away, was one of the places on the outskirts of the city where men went to resolve their quarrels. And the gesture of freeing up, without further preamble, the Toledo and Biscay weapons had not gone unnoticed by anyone present. Nor had the plural, "Your Mercies," which brought his companion into the game.

The women raised their eyebrows, intrigued, for their gender was a guarantee of safe conduct, allowing them to be privileged spectators. For his part, the second individual-another popinjay distinguished by his goatee, large lace collar, and suede gloves-who had witnessed the prologue with a superior smile, suddenly stopped smiling. It was one thing to go for a stroll with a friend and to bl.u.s.ter a bit before the two ladies, but it was a far different matter to find oneself in a confrontation with a fellow who had the look of a soldier and who, out of the blue, was suggesting they bypa.s.s formalities and settle the business immediately with their swords. The companion's expression said, This is not one of those all-for-show braggarts you see on Calle Montera, This is not one of those all-for-show braggarts you see on Calle Montera, and he communicated this thought further by quietly moving back a few steps. As for the pretty-boy himself, his pallor betrayed that he was thinking exactly the same thing, although his position was more delicate. He had spoken a little too freely, and the problem with words is that once spoken, they cannot find their way back to the speaker alone. Sometimes they have to be returned on the tip of a sword. and he communicated this thought further by quietly moving back a few steps. As for the pretty-boy himself, his pallor betrayed that he was thinking exactly the same thing, although his position was more delicate. He had spoken a little too freely, and the problem with words is that once spoken, they cannot find their way back to the speaker alone. Sometimes they have to be returned on the tip of a sword.

"The boy was not to blame," said the companion.

He had spoken like an hidalgo, voice firm and calm, but conciliation was evident in his words. He wanted to remove himself from the center of things and in addition provide his friend with a way out, giving him a foothold whereby he could end the incident without his doublet slashed as generously as his sleeves.

I saw the dandy uncurl the fingers of his right hand and then close them again. He hesitated. Things could be worse. By pure arithmetic, it was two against one, and had he discovered the least sign of discomfort or emotion in Diego Alatriste he might have gone forward-on de la Vega hill, or right there. But there was something about the captain's cool demeanor, an indifference so absolute that it transcended his immobility and his silences that counseled "proceed with great caution." I knew exactly what was going through his head: a man who challenges a pair of well-armed strangers either is very sure of himself and his sword, or he is mad. And neither of the two possibilities was to be treated lightly. Even so, I have to say that the caballero was not fainthearted. He did not want to fight, but neither did he want to lose face; so for a few instants more he locked eyes with the captain. Then he looked toward me, as if seeing me for the first time.

"I agree that the boy was not to blame," he said finally.

The women smiled, though not without a little disappointment at being deprived of entertainment. The friend contained a sigh of relief. As for me, it did not matter whether the pretty-boy apologized or not. I was attuned to Captain Alatriste's profile beneath the brim of his hat, his thick mustache, his chin, badly shaved that morning, his scars, the gray-green, expressionless eyes that had looked into a void only he could contemplate. Then I looked at his worn and mended doublet, the ancient cape, the modest collar washed time and time again by Caridad la Lebrijana, the dull reflection of the sun on the sword guard and dagger grip protruding from his belt. And I was conscious of a dual and magnificent privilege: that man had been my father's friend, and now he was also mine, ready to fight on my behalf over a mere word.

Or maybe, in truth, he was doing it for himself. Perhaps the king's wars, the patrons who hired his sword, the friends who embroiled him in dangerous undertakings, the loose-tongued fops and dandies, even I myself, were simply pretexts that allowed Alatriste to fight because-as don Francisco de Quevedo would have said-there was no choice but but to fight, regardless of G.o.d, and against whatever there was to be against. And don Francisco himself was now hurrying to join us, sniffing a conflict, though a bit late. to fight, regardless of G.o.d, and against whatever there was to be against. And don Francisco himself was now hurrying to join us, sniffing a conflict, though a bit late.

I would have followed Captain Alatriste to the Gates of h.e.l.l at one word, one gesture, one smile. I was far from suspecting that that was precisely where he was leading me.

I believe I have already spoken of Angelica de Alquezar. Over the years, when I was a soldier like Diego Alatriste-and played other roles that will be told in good time-life placed women in my path. I am not given to the bluff and bl.u.s.ter of the tavern, nor to lyrical nostalgia, but since the tale demands some comment, I shall boil the matter down and state that I loved a certain number of them, and that I recall others with tenderness, indifference, or-most often the case-with a happy and complicit smile. That is the highest laurel a man may hope for, to emerge from such sweet embraces unscathed, with his purse little diminished, his health reasonable, and his esteem intact.

That being said, I shall affirm to Your Mercies that of all the women whose paths crossed mine, the niece of the royal secretary, Luis de Alquezar, was without doubt the most beautiful, the most intelligent, the most seductive, and the most evil. You will make the objection, perhaps, that my youth may have made me excessively vulnerable-remember that at the time of this story I was a lad from the Basque country, not yet fourteen, who had been in Madrid no more than a year. But that was not the case. Even later, when I was a man grown and Angelica was in the full bloom of her womanhood, my sentiments were unchanged. It was like loving the Devil, even knowing who he is.

I believe that I have recounted previously that youthful or not, I was obsessively in love with that senorita. Mine was not yet the pa.s.sion that comes with years and time, when flesh and blood are blended with dreams, and everything takes on a diffuse and dangerous tone. At the time I am referring to, mine was a kind of hypnotic attraction, like peering into an abyss that tempts you and terrifies you at the same time. Only later-the adventure of the convent and of the dead woman was merely a station on that Via Crucis-I learned how misleading the blond curls and blue eyes of that angelic-looking girl could be, the cause of my so often finding myself on the verge of sacrificing my honor and my life. In spite of everything, however, I went on loving her to the end. And even now when Angelica de Alquezar and the others are gone, familiar ghosts in my memory, I swear to G.o.d above and to all the demons of h.e.l.l-where she is most surely a bright flame today-that I love her still. At times, when memories seem so sweet that I long even for old enemies, I go and stand before the portrait Diego Velazquez painted of her, and stay for hours looking at her in silence, painfully aware that I never truly knew her. But along with the scars that she inflicted, my old heart still holds the conviction that that girl, that woman who inflicted upon me every evil she was capable of, also, in her way, loved me till the day she died.

At the time of this story, however, all that lay before me. The morning that I followed her carriage to the Acero fountain, beyond the Manzanares and the Segovia bridge, Angelica de Alquezar was simply a fascinating enigma. I have already written that she used to ride down Calle Toledo on the way between her domicile and the palace, where she served as a menina, menina, waiting upon the queen and the princesses. The house where she lived, an old mansion on the corner of La Encomienda and Los Embajadores, belonged to her uncle, Luis de Alquezar. It had been the property of the Marques de Ortigolas until he-ruined by a well-known actress in La Cruz theater, who choked more life out of him than a hangman his victims-had to sell it to satisfy his creditors. Luis de Alquezar had never married, and his one known weakness, aside from the voracious exercise of power that had earned him his position at court, was his orphaned niece, the daughter of a sister who had perished with her husband, a duke, during the storm that lashed the fleet of the Indies in '21. waiting upon the queen and the princesses. The house where she lived, an old mansion on the corner of La Encomienda and Los Embajadores, belonged to her uncle, Luis de Alquezar. It had been the property of the Marques de Ortigolas until he-ruined by a well-known actress in La Cruz theater, who choked more life out of him than a hangman his victims-had to sell it to satisfy his creditors. Luis de Alquezar had never married, and his one known weakness, aside from the voracious exercise of power that had earned him his position at court, was his orphaned niece, the daughter of a sister who had perished with her husband, a duke, during the storm that lashed the fleet of the Indies in '21.

I had watched her pa.s.s by, as was my habit, from my post at the door of the Tavern of the Turk. Sometimes I followed her two-mule carriage to the Plaza Mayor, or sometimes to the very flagstones of the palace, where I turned and followed my footsteps home. All for the fleeting reward of one of her disturbingly blue glances-which on occasion she deigned to grant me before focusing on some detail of the landscape, or turning toward the duenna who usually accompanied her: a hypocritical, vinegary old woman as worn and thin as a student's purse. The duenna was one of those creatures of whom it could honestly be said, Never without her scapular,with more herbs and balms and flummerythan all the nostrums that line the shelvesof the city's most bustling pharmacy.

I had, as you perhaps recall, exchanged a few words with Angelica during the adventure of the two Englishmen, and I always suspected that, knowingly or not, she had contributed to our being attacked in El Principe theater, where Captain Alatriste came within a hair of losing his hide. But no one is completely in control of whom he hates or whom he loves; so, even knowing that, the blonde girl continued to bewitch me. And my intuition that it was all a devilishly dangerous game did nothing but spur my imagination.

So I followed her that morning through the Guadalajara gate and de la Villa plaza. It was a brilliant day, but instead of continuing toward the palace, her carriage rolled down the de la Vega hill onto the Segovia bridge and across the river whose thin trickle was the eternal source of burlesque and ridicule from the city's poets. Even the usually cultured and exquisite don Luis de Gongora-quoted here with an apology to Senor de Quevedo-contributed the pretty lines that follow.

An a.s.s drank you in yesterday,and today you are the p.i.s.s it pa.s.sed.

I learned later that Angelica had during that time fallen quite pale, and her physician had recommended outings among the groves and promenades near El Duque garden and the Casa de Campo. He'd also prescribed the renowned waters of the Acero fountain, widely believed to cure, among other things, ladies suffering from amenorrhea, or interruption of various delicate female functions. A fountain described by Lope in one of his plays: Take a walk tomorrow,if you can endurea good half-dipper ofAcero-laced water,the miraculous unblocking cure.

Angelica was still very young for that type of problem, but it is true that the cool shade there, the sun and the healing air, were good for her. So that was where she was heading, with carriage, coachman, and duenna, and me following some distance behind. On the other side of the bridge and the river, damas and caballeros were strolling beneath the arching trees. In the Madrid of that day, just as I mentioned in regard to the church of Las Benitas, wherever there were ladies-and the Acero fountain attracted not a few, with or without duennas-there also boiled a pot full of gallants, procurers, amorous rendezvous, and other encounters, any of which, fueled by jealousy, might lead to an exchange of words and insults, drawn swords, and a paseo paseo ended with swordplay. In that hypocritical Spain, always a slave to appearances and "What will people say?" where the honor of fathers and husbands was measured by the chast.i.ty of their wives and daughters-to the point of not letting them leave the house-activities that were in principle innocent, such as taking the waters or going to ma.s.s, engendered a muddle of adventures, intrigues, and liaisons. ended with swordplay. In that hypocritical Spain, always a slave to appearances and "What will people say?" where the honor of fathers and husbands was measured by the chast.i.ty of their wives and daughters-to the point of not letting them leave the house-activities that were in principle innocent, such as taking the waters or going to ma.s.s, engendered a muddle of adventures, intrigues, and liaisons.

I am pretending, my beloved husband,to be needing "regulation,"that I may deceive a jealous fatherand an aunt's intimidation.

So I apologize to Your Mercies for the youthful spirit of chivalry and adventure with which I followed behind the coach of my beloved, knowing I was heading to a place well known for intrigue, and lamenting only that I was not yet old enough to wear a gleaming sword at my belt with which to carve rivals into little pieces. I was a long way from imagining that, with time, my wishes would be fulfilled, point by point. But when the hour actually came for me to kill for Angelica de Alquezar-and I did kill for her-neither she nor I were children. All my romancing had ceased, and life was no longer a game.

Pardiez. I wander in circles, with digressions and leaps in time that take me away from the thread of my tale. So I shall pick it up again by calling Your Mercies' attention to something central to my story: the enthusiasm at seeing my beloved that caused me to commit a careless act I would later deeply regret. I wander in circles, with digressions and leaps in time that take me away from the thread of my tale. So I shall pick it up again by calling Your Mercies' attention to something central to my story: the enthusiasm at seeing my beloved that caused me to commit a careless act I would later deeply regret.

Ever since don Vicente de la Cruz's visit I had thought I detected the movement of suspicious people around our house. Nothing truly disturbing, it is true; only a couple of faces that were not usually seen either on Calle del Arcabuz or in the Tavern of the Turk. I suppose that this in itself was not overly strange, for on Cava Baja, as well as other streets in the neighborhood, there were a number of inns. But that morning I had noticed something I would have given more consideration to had I not been waiting for Angelica to pa.s.s by. It was only later that I gave it proper thought, when I had ample time to mull over the events that had brought me to the sinister place I found myself in. Or where, to be more accurate, I found myself forced to go.

It had happened that after we returned from the ma.s.s at the church of Las Benitas, I stood at the tavern door, and Diego Alatriste went on to Calle de los Correos, where he had business at the letter-office. And at that moment, as the captain was walking up Toledo, two strangers strolling past the fruit stands with an innocent air exchanged a few words in a low voice before one of them turned and followed the captain. I watched from where I was, wondering whether it was a chance move or whether the two were planning some thievery, when Angelica's carriage went by and erased everything but her from my mind. And yet, as I later had bitter opportunity to lament, the ear-to-ear mustaches, the wide-brimmed hats pulled down in swashbuckling fas.h.i.+on, the swords and daggers, and the swaggering walk of those two bullies, should have made me dog their steps. But G.o.d, the Devil, or whoever plays us life's pranks, always watches with amus.e.m.e.nt as through carelessness, pride, or ignorance, we find ourselves walking on the sharp edge of the knife.

She was as beautiful as Lucifer before his expulsion from Paradise. Her carriage had stopped beneath the poplar trees lining the road, and she had got out of the coach to stroll around the fountain. She had not yet outgrown her blond curls, and the l.u.s.trous cloth of her dress, as blue as her eyes, seemed to have been cut from the cloudless sky that framed the rooftops and towers of Madrid, its ancient wall, and the solid ma.s.s of the palace. After the coachman hobbled his mules, he had gone to join his fellow drivers, and the duenna had gone to fill a receptacle with water from the famed fountain. Angelica was alone. I felt my heart thumping as I drew closer beneath the trees, and from a distance I watched as she graciously greeted a few young friends who were having a little social, and then, after stealing a glance toward the distant chaperone, accepted a treat they offered her.

At that moment, I would have given all my youth and all my dreams to be, instead of a humble, beardless page, one of the das.h.i.+ng hidalgos-or at least men who resembled hidalgos-following the paths, twisting their mustaches as they sighted appealing senoritas, addressing a few clever words to them, hat in hand, fist elegantly posed on a hip or on the pommel of a sword. It was undoubtedly true that there were also ordinary folk there, no few of them, and with experience I learned that in those days, as in ours, not everything that glisters is good breeding, for there were wh.o.r.es and rogues among them who gave themselves airs out of vanity or a wish to improve their lot. Whatever their background, however dubious, Jew or Moor, it was enough to have bad handwriting, speak slowly and gravely, have debts, ride a horse, and carry a sword, in order to pa.s.s oneself off as a gentleman. But to my young eyes, anyone who wore a cape and sword-or clog shoes, fine petticoats, and farthingales-seemed to me to be a person of quality. At that point, I did not know much of the world.

A few dandies rode by on horseback, making their mounts rear and curvet as they neared a coach filled with ladies-or doxies-flirting with them whoever they were, and I wished with all my heart to be one of them, to rein in my horse and address Angelica in exquisite phrases. By now, she had penetrated deeper into the grove and, gathering up her underskirts with infinite grace, was meandering among the ferns that bordered the banks of the stream. Her eyes seemed to be fixed on the ground, and as I drew closer I could see that she was following the path of a long line of industrious ants scurrying back and forth with the discipline of German infantrymen. More venturesome than ever before, I took a few more steps in her direction before some twigs snapped beneath my feet. She looked up at me. Or it might be more accurate to say that the sky and her gown and her gaze enveloped me like a warm mist, and I felt my head whirl the way it did in the Tavern of the Turk from the vapors of wine spilled on the table, clouding my senses and making everything seem very slow and far away.

"I know you," she said.

She did not smile, nor did she seem surprised or displeased by my presence. She looked at me with curiosity, in the way that mothers and older sisters look before they say "You have grown a good inch," or "Your voice is changing." To my good fortune, I was wearing an old but clean doublet that had no patches, and pa.s.sable breeches; also, following the captain's orders, I had washed my face and ears. I strove to pa.s.s her scrutiny without flinching, and after a brief struggle with my innate shyness, I was able to return her gaze serenely.

"My name is inigo Balboa," I said.

"I know. You are the friend of that Captain Triste, or Batristre."