lTan sicura crede Lei tener la sua cacciaT she asked slyly.
I may have been young, but I was not entirely a fool. When I heard those words, I was sure: she was a lady of the night, albeit dressed as a lady of quality. She was not at all like the ordinary whores, trulls, drabs and stales who hung about on street corners, the kind who swore they would faint at the sight of a mouse, but didn't turn a hair when they saw half a company of harquebusiers arrive for business.
'I'm not on the hunt,' I said simply. 'I've just come off duty, and I feel more like sleeping than anything else.'
She studied me in the dim light, weighing me up. I assume my youth was evident in my face and my voice. I could almost hear her thinking.
'Spagnuolo e soldato bisogno,' she concluded scornfully. 'Piu fanfaronata che argento.'
There she touched a nerve. 'Bisogno was the nickname given to the new Spanish soldiers who arrived in Naples as innocent as Carib tribesmen, unable to speak the language, apart from the word 'bisogno' — 'I need'. And, as I say, I was very young. Anyway, somewhat piqued, I patted my purse, which contained three silver carlins, one piece of eight and a few smaller coins. I was forgetting, of course, Don Francisco de Quevedo's sage advice: 'When it comes to women, choose the cheapest.'
'Ml piace il discorso,' said the lady pirate with great aplomb.
And without more ado, she took my hand and tugged at me gently. Her hand was small and warm and young. That assuaged my fear that she might simply be putting on a youthful voice and that, beneath the disguise, I would find a haggard old whore trying to pass herself off as a sweet virgin. I still hadn't seen her face though. Then I decided to clarify the situation, saying that I had no intention of going as far as she was offering to go. However, fearing — fool that I was — that I might offend her with a brusque negative, I remained somewhat ambiguous. And so, when I told her that I was going back to my inn, she bemoaned my lack of manners in allowing her to return to her house unaccompanied; besides, her house was close by, in Pizzofalcone, at the top of those steps. A woman alone and at night, she said, must avoid any unfortunate encounters. As a final flourish, she allowed her mantilla to slip a little, as if by accident, revealing a firm mouth, very white skin and the kind of dark eyes that pierce and kill in a trice.
There was nothing more to be said, and we walked along, arm in arm, with me breathing in her amber perfume, listening to the rustle of silk and thinking, with every step, and despite all my experience to date, that I was merely accompanying a woman through the streets of Naples and that nothing bad could possibly come of it. I even doubted, in my innocence, that she really was a strumpet. It occurred to me that she was perhaps merely a capricious young girl, a strange miracle of the night, out on a youthful adventure. You can see how very stupid I was. ' Vieni qua, galantuomo.'
These words, spoken in a whisper, were accompanied by a caress to my cheek, which did not displease me. We reached her house, or what I took to be her house, and the sweet girl removed a key from under her cloak and opened the door. I may have been losing what little sense I had, but I noticed at once how sordid the place was, which put me on the alert. I tried to say goodbye, but she again took my hand. We had walked up the steps that go from Santa Lucia to the first houses in Pizzofalcone — the large barracks I lived in years later had not yet been built — and once through the door, we entered a deep, dark, musty hallway. She clapped her hands, and an old serving-woman arrived bearing a light. She led us up more stairs to a room furnished only with a mat, two chairs, a table and a straw mattress. That room dispelled all my fantasies: this was clearly not a private house, but a place where flesh was bought and sold, one of those places that abound in fake mothers, shopkeepers selling their own nieces and very distant cousins. As the poet says:
The comely widow dressed in black Swears to everyone, it's said, That fearing to see her husband's ghost She much prefers to share her bed
Anyway, the woman removed her mantilla and revealed a reasonably attractive face, although rather more heavily made up and less youthful than it had seemed to me in the dark. She started telling me a long unlikely tale about a jewel a female friend of hers had pawned, and about a cousin or brother of one or the other, and some money that she needed desperately in order to save the honour of both ladies, and I don't know what else, but all very pertinent no doubt. I, meanwhile, hadn't even sat down and was still standing there, with my hat in my hand and my sword in my belt, waiting for her to finish speaking. My idea was to deposit a few coins on the table, in payment for wasting her time, then leave. However, before I could put that plan into action, the door opened again and, just as if we were in a farce by Quinones de Benavente, the villain of the piece made his entrance.
'Gadzooks!' quoth the villain.
He was Spanish, dressed as a soldier, and bore himself very proudly, although clearly there was nothing of the military about him, and the closest he had ever got to a Lutheran or a Turk had been in the theatre. Otherwise, he was like a character straight out of a book, all bluster and bravado, swearing by Christ's wounds and affecting a false Andalusian accent as if he had just come hotfoot from Seville. He had the inevitable waxed moustache proper to all swashbucklers, and, having stalked into the room, he immediately struck a pose, legs astride, one fist on his waist and the other on the hilt of a sword seven spans long. He pronounced his 'g's as 'h's and his 'h's as 'j's — a sure sign of unassailable bravery. In short, he was the very image of the kind of pimp who takes young girls and lives off the fruits of their hard labour whilst he boasts of having killed no end of men, of regularly handing out beatings before he's even had breakfast, roughing up whores in the presence of their bully-boys, making mincemeat of catchpoles, holding his tongue on the rack, enjoying the admiration, respect and affection of his fellow ruffians, and Lord knows what else.
'God's teeth!' he spluttered, frowning furiously, 'I've told you before, Senora, that for the sake of my honour, you must never bring another man into this house!'
He continued in the same vein for some time, declaiming as if from a pulpit, thundering against the treachery and scandal brought on him by his dam. He declared that, even captive in Algiers, he would not have suffered such humiliation, and warned that his sword was very sharp, by God. Because when the rage took him and his bile was up, by all that's holy, he could as lief kill two as two hundred. He was within an ace of marking that trollop's face with the sign of the cross so that she would learn once and for all that Cannibals and Gorillas like him (he meant, of course, to say Hannibals and Attilas) would not put up with such excesses, and if anyone should abuse his good faith and try to put horns on his head, his wrath would be terrible to see. And woe betide the Turk in question if he, too, wasn't man enough to dispatch seven men and put them well beyond the help of any surgeon. By the Eternal Father and the mother who bore him, et cetera, et cetera.
While this jewel of the scoundrelry babbled on, I stayed where I was, my back to the wall, hat in hand and sword in sheath, saying nothing, but waiting to see when he would finally get to the point. And so I had the leisure to observe the poor sinner, who took her role very seriously, like someone who knows both words and music, and was looking troubled and contrite and fearful, wringing her hands in great sorrow, and occasionally interposing excuses and pleas. Her better half, without ceasing his deluge of words, would now and then raise his hand from his hip as if to slap her, only to hold back at the last moment. And he did all this without once looking at me.
'So,' said the pimp, coming at last to the nub of the matter, 'we'll have to reach some arrangement; otherwise, I can't be answerable for my actions.'
I stood where I was, silently studying him, while I pondered what Captain Alatriste would do in my shoes. However, as soon as I heard the words 'arrangement' and 'actions', I moved away from the wall and lunged at the villain so quickly that I had put my hand to my dagger, unsheathed it and slashed his face before he could cry 'God save me'. I didn't see much else apart from the brag
gart collapsing with a gash above his ear, his whore rushing to his aid with a yelp of horror, and then, fleetingly, the steps in the house and then those of Santa Lucia, which I took four at a time and in the dark, risking a fall, as I fled as fast as my young legs would carry me. For as the saying goes — and quite right too — it's every man for himself and the Devil take the hindmost.
Chapter 8. THE CHORRILLO INN
Captain Alonso de Contreras was drinking from a fountain, cupping the water in his hands. Then, drying his bristly moustache on the sleeve of his doublet, he looked across at Vesuvius, whose plume of smoke melted into the low clouds on the far side of the bay. He took a deep, satisfied breath of the cool breeze blowing along the dock, where his frigate, ready to set sail, was moored alongside a square-rigged French vessel and two galleys belonging to the Pope. Beside him, Diego Alatriste also took a drink from the fountain, and then they both continued their walk towards the imposing black towers of Castel Nuovo.
It was midday, and beneath their feet the sun and the breeze were gradually drying the rivulets of blood left by eight Morisco corsairs who had been beaten to death in the early hours of that morning, almost as soon as they stepped off the galleys that had captured them off Cape Colonna five days earlier.
'I hate leaving Naples,' Contreras said. 'Lampedusa is so small and in Sicily I have the Viceroy on my back. Here, I feel free again, I even feel younger. I swear to God, this place could rejuvenate anyone, don't you agree?'
'I suppose so, although I think it might take rather more than that to rejuvenate us.'
'You're right. It's as if time were travelling post-haste. Speaking of post, I've just come from Don Francisco's, and someone said there was a letter for you. I've had a letter myself from Lope de Vega. Our protégé Lopito will be coming
to Naples at the end of the summer. Poor lad, eh? And poor Laura — dead from a fever after only six months of marriage. God, how time flies! That trick we played on her uncle seems like only yesterday, and yet it's a whole year ago.'
Alatriste said nothing, his thoughts elsewhere. He was still staring at the dark stains that ran from the quay to the Customs house. The men from whose bodies the blood had flowed had been part of a group of twenty-seven corsairs from Algiers — all of them Moriscos — captured on board a brigantine that had plundered a number of ships along the coasts of Calabria and Sicily, among them a Neapolitan vessel on which every single member of the crew — from captain to cabin boy — had been put to death for flying the Spanish flag. As the prisoners were being taken off the vessel, those recently widowed and orphaned stood on the quay alongside the crowd that usually gathered for the arrival of galleys. Such was the public anger that, after a brief consultation with the bishops, the Viceroy agreed that those who were prepared to die as Christians would be hanged in three days' time without suffering any further torture, but those who refused to accept the one true faith would be handed over to the people, who were clamouring for a more immediate form of justice. Eight of the Moriscos, all of them tagarinos — Spanish Muslims from the same Aragonese village, Villefeliche — spurned the priests waiting for them on the quayside and affirmed their faith in Islam. It therefore fell to some Neapolitan boys, the urchins of street and port, to beat them to death with sticks and stones.
The bodies had been displayed beneath the lantern on the quay and on the tower of San Vicente; now what was left of them was being burned, amid much celebration, on the other side of the smaller harbour in La Marinella.
'By the way,' Contreras said, adopting a confidential tone, 'there's going to be another raid on the Levant. I've been asked to lend them Gorgos, my pilot, and they've spent days consulting my Universal Map, which details almost every inch of these coasts. And while I'm honoured that they should do so, I'm angry, too. I haven't seen my magnum opus since Prince Filiberto asked to borrow it in order to have a copy made. And whenever I demand it back, those bloodsucking cockroaches in black fob me off with excuses, devil take 'em!'
'Galleys or sailing ships?' Alatriste asked.
With a sigh, Contreras put thoughts of his map to one side.
'Galleys. Ours and those belonging to the Knights, I understand. The Mulata is one of them. So you have a campaign to look forward to.'
'A long one?'
'Fairly. They're saying one month or two, beyond the Mayna channel, possibly even as far east as the Dardanelles, where, as I recall, you wouldn't need a guide.'
Alatriste pulled a wry face in response to his friend's broad smile. They left the harbour and proceeded along the esplanade between the Customs house and the imposing moat surrounding Castel Nuovo. The last time Alatriste had seen the Dardanelles was in 1613, when the galley he was sailing in was captured by the Turks near Cape Troya. Many died and the lateen yard bristled with arrows. Gravely wounded in one leg, Alatriste had been liberated along with other survivors when the Turkish ship was, in turn, captured within sight of the fortresses overlooking the strait.
'Do you know who else is going?' he asked, raising one hand to the brim of his hat, to greet a few acquaintances — three harquebusiers and a musketeer on guard at the postern by the ramp leading up to the castle. Contreras did the same.
'According to Machin de Gorostiola, there will be three of our own galleys and two belonging to the Knights. Machin is embarking with his Basques, which is how he knows about the plan.'
They reached the esplanade, where carriages and cavalry and an animated crowd were heading towards the palace square and Trinita dei Spagnuoli, on their way back from the burning of the Moriscos. A dozen or so young lads marched alongside them. They were carrying on a broom handle the tattered, bloody tunic of a corsair.
'The Mulata will be carrying extra troops,' Contreras went on. 'I believe Fernando Labajos will be on board along with twenty experienced harquebusiers, all from your company.'
Alatriste nodded, pleased. He got on well with Lieutenant Labajos, a tough, efficient veteran who was accustomed to life on the galleys. As for Captain Machin de Gorostiola, he commanded a company made up entirely of Basques from Vizcaya; sturdy, long-suffering men who were both cruel and unrelenting in combat. It was set to be a serious expedition.
'That's fine by me,' he said.
'Will you take the boy?'
'I suppose so.'
A downcast Contreras twirled his moustache.
'I'd give anything to come with you. I do miss the good old days, my friend. Do you remember how the Turks used to call us the Catholic king's corsairs? And how we would fill our hats to the brim with silver coins? Ah, all those famous battles and beautiful whores! Dear God, I'd give Lampedusa, my Knights Hospitaller's habit and even the play Lope wrote about me, just to be thirty again. What times, eh, those of the great Duke of Osuna!'
They grew serious at the mention of the unfortunate Duke's name, and said nothing more until they reached Via dei Macellai, opposite the gardens belonging to the Viceroy's palace.
The great Duke of Osuna was the same Don Pedro Tellez Giron under whom Alatriste had fought in Flanders, during the siege of Ostend. Later made Viceroy of Naples and then of Sicily, he and the Spanish galleys had sown terror throughout the seas of Italy and the Levant during the reign of Philip III, gaining the respect of Turks, Berbers and Venetians alike. His private life may have been outlandish and scandalous, but the Duke was an efficient statesman and had met with great success as a soldier, always eager for glory and for booty, which he later squandered. He surrounded himself with the best soldiers and sailors and had made many men at Court, including the King, very rich indeed. However, the dazzling rise of his star had inevitably aroused a great deal of resentment and, after the King's death, his life ended in ruin and imprisonment. Subjected to a trial that never reached a conclusion, and refusing to defend himself because, he maintained, his exploits spoke for themselves, the great Duke of Osuna had died a miserable death in prison, to the applause and joy of the enemies of Spain, in particular Turkey, Venice and Savoy, whom he had held at
bay during the period when the black flags bearing his ducal coat of arms victoriously ravaged the Mediterranean. His last words were: 'If I have served God as well as I have served my King, then I have been a good Christian.'
Don Francisco de Quevedo had been a close friend — indeed, his friendship with Diego Alatriste dated from that same period in Naples — and he was one of the few who had remained faithful to the Duke, even in misfortune. He wrote some of his finest sonnets by way of an epitaph. These lines, for example:
Although his country has denied him praise,
His deeds will always be his best defence;
Imprison'd by Spain, he died — poor recompense
For one who conquered Fortune all his days.
And this other poem, which reflects, better than any history book, the reward that our wretched Spain all too often gave its best sons: