By sheer oar-power — five or six were broken that day — we managed to travel about a league, although it took us all morning. So when the galleymaster mentioned the possibility of a few soldiers lending a hand if things got really bad and there was a risk of us being blown on to the shore, it was curious to hear the chorus of protests, arguing that they were men-at-arms and therefore gentlemen, and that they wouldn't dream of taking up an oar unless, God forbid, the King condemned them to the galleys. Some even said that they would rather be drowned like new-born kittens but with their honour intact; that they would rather be chopped into pieces than see themselves brought down, even for a moment, to the vile condition of galley-slaves. And so, for the time being, there was no further discussion, and everything continued as before, with us soldiers crammed in the embrasures, shivering and soaked, spewing and praying and cursing the universe, and the galley-slaves rowing as hard as they could.
Fortunately, by mid-afternoon the wind had swung round to the south-east, and we were able to pull in the oars. Then, with the mainsail lowered and the wind behind us, a small trinquet-sail was hoist, and that put us back on course. The problem was that a fierce, stormy rain was still falling, enough for a second Great Flood. And thus, alternately lashed by rain and gusts of wind, with lightning playing in the distance and everyone crowded in the stern so as not to weight down the prow, we approached the strait of Messina at a speed, according to the pilot's calculations, of four miles for each turn of the glass. To make matters worse, night had fallen, which made it difficult to verify our position, and somewhere ahead of us lay Scylla and Charybdis, which, in bad weather, was the worst place in the world and had been the terror of sailors since Ulysses' day. However, the heavy seas and the exhaustion of the galley-slaves meant that we could neither beat to windward nor keep our distance.
And that was the situation as we were about to enter the narrow funnel of the strait — unable to turn back even if we wanted to — when some of the men swore that they could see a light on land, and the pilot and Captain Urdemalas, after much consultation, decided to take a chance, uncertain 1 as to whether it was the fire in the Messina tower or the I lighthouse about two leagues to the north. And so, leaving | the trinquet-sail raised, the oars were brought out again. The galleymaster tried hard to make his whistle heard above the 5 wind howling in the rigging, and the galley-slaves, the Moor ' Gurriato included, began to row, while the helmsman, battling against the rolling of the ship, struggled to keep the bow pointing towards the distant light. Our hearts in our mouths and clinging on as best we could, we plunged on into darkness, much faster than we wanted, hoping that we wouldn't be wrecked on a sandbank or a rock.
And that is precisely what would have happened if something had not occurred that many claimed was a miracle and others thought was merely the luck of the sea. For the light on the tower suddenly went out, perhaps doused by the sheer quantity of rain, just as we were, according to the pilot, nearing the city of Messina. The wind had rolled round again to the north-east and there we were, in the dark, with the sea a little calmer, looking for the harbour mouth. And had a flash of lightning not lit up the fort of San Salvador a mere pistol shot ahead of us, forcing the helmsman to fling the rudder hard in the other direction, we would have crashed straight into it and been lost just when we had salvation within our grasp.
Chapter 7. SEE NAPLES AND DIE
The night sky glowed red, Vesuvius infusing everything as far as the eye could see with a strange, ghostly light. On the other side of the city the moon was rising, and thus the outline of Naples, its buildings, hills and towers, the land and the sea, were eerily lit from two different directions, creating a mass of strange shadows. It was a landscape as unreal as that in the canvases Diego Alatriste had watched burn during the sacking of Flanders — real fire consuming painted fire.
He took a deep, pleasurable breath of the warm, salt air as he put on his belt with sword and dagger. He wasn't wearing a cape. Despite the lateness of the hour — the Angelus bell had rung — the temperature was still very pleasant. That, along with the remarkable nocturnal light, lent the city a certain melancholy enchantment. A poet such as Don Francisco de Quevedo would have written a few good — or bad — lines of verse about it, but Alatriste was no poet; his only poetry lay in his Scars and a handful of memories. And so he donned his hat, and after looking both ways — dark nights in remote places were not safe, not even for the Devil — he set off, aware of the sound of his own footsteps, first on the dark stones of the road and then, muffled, on the sandy soil of Chiaia.
As he strolled along, keeping an eye out for any shadows that might be hiding among the fishing boats moored by the sea, he could see at the far end of the beach, the hill of Pizzofalcone and Uovo Castle with its feet in the calm waters. Not a single window was lit, and there were no torches in the streets. Not a breath of wind either. The ancient city of Parthenope was sleeping, wreathed in fire, and Alatriste smiled to himself beneath the broad brim of his hat, remembering. That same light, which only occurred when the old volcano stirred into life, had lit many of his youthful adventures.
That was seventeen years ago now, he thought. He had first come to Italy in 1610, after being caught up in the horror of the Morisco problem in the mountains and on the beaches of Spain. As a soldier on the corsair galleys — leventes, the Turks called them — with plenty of booty from the Greek islands and the Ottoman coast within the grasp of any man with enough balls to go after it, the six years of his first term in the Naples regiment had been among the best years of his life. His purse had always been full between voyages, there were the inns and taverns of Mergellina and Chorrillo, Spanish plays put on at the courtyard theatre, good wine, even better food, a healthy climate, and garrison life in the nearby villages, beneath leafy trees and vine trellises, in the company of comrades and beautiful women. He had met a future grandee of Spain there, who was serving on the Neapolitan galleys as a volunteer — which was how young noblemen made a name for themselves. The Count of Guadalmedina was the son of the man who had been Alatriste's general in Flanders at the time of the siege of Ostend.
Yes, Guadalmedina ... While he walked along the shore, Alatriste wondered if, there in his palace in Madrid, Alvaro de la Marca would know that he was back in Naples. Always supposing that the Count, friend and confidant of Philip IV, gave a fig for the fate of the man who, in 1614, in the Kerkennah Islands, had carried him, wounded, on his shoulders and borne him back through the waist-high water to the ships, with the Arabs hot on their trail. But too many things had happened since then, including sword-fights at night outside a certain house in Madrid and a few hard blows to the face by the River Manzanares.
'A pox on him!'
The curse bubbled up inside him, and he turned away with an impatient click of his tongue. The thought of Guadalmedina, whom he hadn't seen since the skirmish at El Escorial, troubled his mind and his pride. To soothe both, he thought of more pleasant matters. For heaven's sake, he was in Naples, surrounded by all the delights of Italy, in reasonable health and with a few coins clinking in his purse. He had good comrades here, too. As well as Sebastian Copons — whom he was very glad to have rescued — there were others who knew how to eat and drink well, comrades with whom a man would happily share his cape. One such was Alonso de Contreras, the oldest of his friends — for with him, when he was barely thirteen, Alatriste had enlisted as a drummer boy in the regiments heading for Flanders. Alatriste and Contreras had met up again ten years later in Italy, then in Madrid and now once again in Naples. Contreras was the same as ever: valiant, talkative and somewhat boastful, although this appearance could prove misleading and dangerous for those who did not know him. He still held the rank of Captain and had become quite famous since Lope de Vega wrote a play about him — The King with no Kingdom. He had served on the Maltese galleys during their attacks on the Morea coast and in the Aegean; and while he had never been exactly rich, he had always had more than enough to spend. The Duke of Albu
querque, Viceroy of Sicily, had just given him the command of the Pantelaria garrison, an island halfway to Tunis, as well as a small frigate to go pirating in if he grew bored. As Contreras put it, he was no more a King than when Lope had made him one, but it was a pleasant posting that
brought with it regular pay and responsibility.
Alatriste continued along the beach. Just before he reached Pizzofalcone, he walked up the hill to his left. At the top, and after going through a gate that remained open all night near the port of Chiaia, he plunged back into the city streets, taking the usual precautions. On the corner of two streets, the light from a tavern fell across his path. Inside, he could hear the strumming of a guitar, Spanish and Italian voices and the laughter of men and women. He was tempted to go in and drink half a pitcher of wine, but he decided against it. It was late, he was tired, and he still had some way to go before he reached the large area known as the Spanish quarter where he had his lodgings. Besides, he had drunk enough to quench his thirst — and, by God, it wasn't only his thirst he had quenched that night — and he drank to the very dregs only when the demons were dancing in his heart and in his memory, which was not the case that night. His most recent memories were closer to heaven than to hell. The idea made him smile, and when he smoothed his moustache, he could still smell on his fingers the perfume of the woman whose house he had just left. It was very good, he thought, to be alive and back in Naples.
'Non e vero,' said the Italian.
Jaime Correas and I looked at each other. Fortunately, neither of us was carrying weapons — in the gaming house, they made you leave them at the door — because otherwise we would have knifed the insolent fellow there and then. His words may not have been offensive to an Italian, but no Spaniard would let them pass without immediately putting hand to sword. And the gambler knew very well where we were from.
'You're the one who's lying through his teeth,' I said.
I stood up, furious at having my word doubted. I grabbed a jug, which I resolved to smash in the man's face at the slightest provocation. Correas did the same, and we stood there, side by side, me facing the gambler and my comrade facing the eight or so surly individuals who were sitting round the table. This wasn't the first time we had found ourselves in such a situation, for as I mentioned elsewhere, Correas was not really one for the quiet life and was accustomed to gambling until the sun came up. He had picked up bad habits in Flanders and become an expert in cheating, gambling and whoring, and was a regular in gaming dens and brothels. He was one of those lost boys who lives his life very close to the edge and who, if he doesn't learn the error of his ways, usually finishes his days on the wrong end of a knife, rowing in the King's galleys or with a rope around his neck. As for me, what can I say? I was the same age, I was his friend, and I was certainly no saint.
So we strode around like two brave fellows, wielding our swords and wearing our hats at a jaunty angle, in that Italy of which we Spaniards had been the masters, more or less, since the old kings of Aragon had conquered Sicily, Corsica and Naples, and since the Great Captain's armies and then Emperor Charles' regiments had kicked out the French. And all this despite the Popes, Venice, Savoy and the Devil.
'You're a lying dog,' said Correas, hammering the final nail into our coffin.
A silence had fallen of the kind that does not bode well, and I cast a soldierly eye about me. Things looked very black indeed. The villain in question was a card-sharper, a Florentine, while the others were Neapolitans, Sicilians or God knows what else, but none of them, as far as I could see, were Spaniards. What's more, we were in a dingy cellar in the Piazza dell'Olmo, opposite the fountain and a long way from the Spanish quarter. The only good thing was that they were all apparently as weaponless as we were, unless they had a knife or sword concealed beneath their clothes. I privately cursed my friend who, once again, with his foolish insistence on playing cards in a disreputable hole was responsible for getting us into this mess. Not that this was the first time, but it looked likely to be the last.
The gamester, for his part, remained perfectly calm. He was a past master, accustomed to such difficulties while plying his worthy trade. His appearance was hardly reassuring: he was extremely thin, had disguised his bald head with a very bad wig, wore thick gold rings on his fingers, and the points of his waxed moustache reached almost to his eyes. He could have passed for a comic actor in a play were it not for the threatening look in his eyes. With a sly air and the falsest of smiles, he glanced at his fellow villains, then indicated the cards spread out on the grimey, wine-stained table.
'Voace a fato acua,' he said coolly. 'A perduto.'
I looked at the cards placed face-up, more annoyed because they had taken us for fools than because of the trick itself. The kings and the sevens with which he claimed to have won had more marks on them and were more dog-eared than a preacher's Bible. Even a child of two would have noticed, but the reprobate, seeing that we were greenhorns, had thought us more innocent than babes.
'Pick up our money,' I whispered to Correas, 'and let's get out of here.'
My companion didn't wait to be told twice. He quickly put the coins back in his purse. Still with the jug in my hand, I did not take my eyes off the sharper of his consorts for an instant. I was still working out moves in my head, as Captain Alatriste always advised me to do: before you get into a fight, he said, plan your escape route. It was ten paces or a dozen steps to the door where our weapons were located. In our favour was the fact that, to avoid getting the owner of the den into trouble with the law, the regulars did not usually attack there and then, but out in the street. This meant we had a clear run as far as the square. I racked my brains to remember which church to take refuge in should it come to a sword fight. Santa Maria Novella and Montserrate were the nearest.
In the end, we had no difficulty leaving, which surprised me somewhat, although you could have cut the silence with a knife. At the top of the stairs, we collected our knives and swords, gave a coin to the boy in charge, and went out into Piazza dell'Olmo, looking back all the time, because we could hear footsteps behind us.
The rosy-fingered dawn — to use the old cliche — was just appearing behind the mountain crowned by the castle of San Martino, lighting our drawn and sleepy faces, the faces of ne'er-do-wells after a night of too much wine, too much music and too much gaming. Jaime Correas had not grown much taller since Flanders, but he had broadened out in the shoulders and acquired a prematurely thick beard, as well as a sword so long that its point dragged along the ground. He indicated with a jerk of his head that the Florentine, along with three of his consorts, were coming after us. He asked me softly if we should run or unsheathe our swords. I sensed that his preference would be to take to his heels. This cooled my ardour, for I was in no fitter state than he was to be exchanging sword thrusts. Besides, according to the Viceroy's edict, anyone caught fighting in the street and in broad daylight would be sent straight to Santiago prison if he was Spanish and to Vicaria prison if he was Italian.
And so there I was, with the Florentine and his followers at my back, hesitating, like the Miles Gloriosus I was, between
two tactics. Should I play the hero, shouting 'Forward Spain!' ; and all that, or imitate that speedy creature, the hare? After - all, courage does not necessarily exclude prudence. Then our eyes beheld a miraculous vision: a squad of Spanish soldiers ; come to relieve the guard at the smaller of the harbours. And so, without further ado, we joined our compatriots and left those Italian rascals stopped in their tracks, although they did take a long hard look at us, so that they would be able to recognise us later on.
I adored Naples. Even now, when I think back to my time as a young man in that city — which was like a world unto itself, as large as Seville and as beautiful as paradise — the mere memory draws from me a nostalgic smile. Imagine me then, a young, handsome Spaniard — fighting beneath the flag of the famous infantry whose nation was the world's greatest power and greatest scourge — living in a deliciou
s place like that: 'Madono, porta mangiare! Bisogno prosciutto e vino! Buongiorno, bella signorinal' What's more, in Italy, with the exception of Sicily, the women walked the streets during the day without cloaks, showing their ankles, and with their hair caught back in a net or covered only by a mantilla or a light silk scarf. We Spaniards, unlike the mean French, the squalid English or the brutish Germans, still had a certain reputation in that country; for although we were arrogant and boastful, we were also perceived as disciplined, brave and free with our money. And despite our fierce nature — to which the popes of Rome could attest — we got on extraordinarily well with the Italians, especially in Naples and Sicily, where people had no difficulty in speaking Castilian. Many Italian regiments — we had some with us in Breda — spilled their blood beneath our flag, and they were never considered traitors by their compatriots or their historians. It was only later on, when Spain sent along not just the captains and soldiers who kept the French and Turks at bay, but a deluge of tax collectors, judges, scribes and other shameless bloodsuckers, that our great deeds gave way to unscrupulous domination, to the rags, banditry and poverty that would give rise to riots and bloody uprisings, like the one in 1647 led by Masaniello.