Pirates of the Levant

  Though he annulled the marriage of the sea and Venice

  And crushed the waves beneath the keels of Spain,

  Making shake both Cyprus Isle and Greece,

  This conqueror was conquered by the Law's thin cane!

  'Speaking of your young companion,' Contreras said suddenly, 'I have news of him.'

  'Of Inigo?'

  'The very same. But I doubt very much that this news will please you.'

  And having said that, Contreras brought Diego Alatriste up to date. In one of those coincidences so common in Naples, a certain acquaintance of his, a chief constable, had been interrogating a ne'er-do-well who frequented the Chorrillo Inn. At the first turn of the screw, the man in question, who was not made of the sternest of stuff, had blabbered everything he knew about man and God. Among other things, he mentioned that a certain Florentine gambler, a regular customer at such places and more astute than brave, was recruiting villains in order to recover — through blood and an ambush — a gaming debt incurred in Piazza dell'Olmo by two young soldiers, one of whom was lodged at Ana de Osorio's inn, in the Spanish quarter.

  'Are you sure he was referring to Inigo?'

  "Od's blood! The only thing I'm sure about is that one day I'll have to meet my Maker, but the description and the fact that he's lodging at the inn fit like a glove.'

  Alatriste smoothed his moustache and instinctively placed his left hand on the hilt of his sword.

  'This happened at the Chorrillo, you say?'

  'The very place. Apparently, the Florentine frequents the taverns in that area.'

  'And did the snitch give the Florentine's name?'

  'Yes, Giacomo Colapietra — a rogue and a rascal, by all accounts.'

  They walked on in silence, Alatriste frowning beneath his hat, which cast a shadow over his cold, green eyes. When they had gone only a short distance, Contreras gave a chuckle.

  'By my troth, my friend, I'm sorry to be leaving tonight. I would swear that the Chorrillo is about to become a very interesting place indeed!'

  As it turned out, it was our room at the inn that was about to become a very interesting place, for shortly before the Angelus, just as I was about to go out for the evening, Captain Alatriste came in with a loaf of bread under one arm and a bottle of wine under the other. I was accustomed to divining his thoughts and his mood, and as soon as I saw the way he threw his hat down on the bed and unbuckled his sword, I knew that something was troubling him.

  'Are you going out?' he asked, seeing that I was dressed in my street clothes.

  I was, it must be said, rather smartly turned out in a shirt with a Walloon collar, a green velvet waistcoat and a fine cloth doublet — the latter bought at the sale of Ensign Muelas' effects after his death in Lampedusa — breeches, stockings and silver-buckled shoes. On my hat, I had a new green silk ribbon. I said that, yes, I was going out; that Jaime Correas was waiting for me at an inn in Via Sperancella, although I spared the Captain the details of our planned expedition, which included a visit to an elegant gaming den in Via Mardones. This would be followed by a supper of roast capon and cherry tart accompanied by a little wine at the house of the Portuguesa, a place near the fountain of the Incoronata, where there was music and you could dance the canario and the pavanne.

  'And what's in the purse?' he asked, seeing me close it and put it in my pocket.

  'Money,' I said curtly.

  'It looks like a lot of money for one night.'

  'How much I take with me is my business.'

  He stood looking at me thoughtfully, one hand on his hip, while he digested my insolent riposte. It was true that our savings were shrinking. His savings, which he had placed with a goldsmith in Via Sant'Anna, would be just enough to pay for our lodgings and to help out the Moor Gurriato, whose sole wealth lay in the silver earrings he wore. The Moor had not yet received his first pay and, as a new soldier, he only had the right to stay in the barracks and eat whatever the troops ate. As for my money, about which the Captain never asked, there had been a number of drains on my purse of late, so much so that I needed a fair wind at the gaming table if I was not to end up without a penny.

  'And I suppose getting knifed to death on a street corner is your business too?'

  My hand, which had reached out to pick up my sword and my dagger, stopped halfway. I had spent many years by his side, and I knew that tone of voice.

  'Are you referring to a possibility, Captain, or to one knife thrust in particular?'

  He did not reply at once. He had opened the bottle of wine and poured himself a mugful. He drank a little and peered at the wine, assessing the quality of what the inn-keeper had

  sold him. Apparently satisfied, he took another sip.

  'There are many reasons for getting yourself killed, but getting yourself killed over a gaming debt is simply shameful.'

  He was speaking calmly, still gazing at the wine in his mug. I was about to protest, but he raised his hand to stop me.

  'It is,' he concluded, 'unworthy of a true man and of a soldier.'

  I scowled, for while the truth may hurt a Basque, it never breaks him.

  'I have no debts.'

  'That's not what I've heard.'

  'Whoever told you that,' I retorted, 'is a lying Judas.'

  'What's the problem, then?'

  'What problem are you referring to?'

  'Explain to me why someone would want to kill you.'

  My surprise, which must have been written all over my face, was entirely genuine.

  'Kill me? Who?'

  'A certain Giacomo Colapietra, a Florentine gamester, and a regular at the Chorrillo and the Piazza dell'Olmo. He's currently hiring some ruffians with sharp knives to finish you off.'

  I took a few steps about the room, stunned. I wasn't expecting such news and a wave of embarrassment swept through my body.

  'It isn't a debt,' I said. 'I've never had any debts.'

  'Tell me what happened.'

  I explained as briefly as I could how Jaime Correas and I had been halfway through a card game with the Florentine when he had tried to cheat us by using marked cards, and how we had left without giving him the money he claimed we owed him.

  'I'm not a child, Captain,' I said.

  He looked me up and down. My account did not seem to have improved his view of the affair. While it was true that the Captain was often quite happy to drink everything that was put in front of him, it was equally true that he had never been seen with a deck of cards in his hand. He despised those who risked money which, in his profession, could pay either for a life or for the sword that took that life away.

  'Nor yet a man, it seems.'

  That roused my anger. 'No one has the right to say that to me,' I retorted, my pride injured, 'I won't allow it.'

  '/ have the right to say it.'

  His eyes were as cold as the ice that had crunched beneath our boots in Flanders.

  'And you,' he added after a heavy silence, 'will give me that right.'

  This wasn't a statement; it was an order. Struggling to find a response that would not prove too humiliating, I glanced at my sword and my dagger, as if appealing to them for help. Like the Captain's weapons, they both bore scratches and dents on the blades and guards. And I had scars on my body, too, although not as many as him.

  'I've killed ...'

  Several men, I wanted to say, but I held back, out of shame. It sounded like an empty tavern boast spoken by a ruffian.

  'Who hasn't?'

  He was regarding me ironically, scornfully, in a way that made my gorge rise.

  'I'm a soldier,' I protested.

  'Even a deserter can say he's a soldier. The gaming dens and taverns and whorehouses are full of them.'

  This comment enraged me still further, almost to the point

  of tears. It was unfair, a dreadful thing to say, especially since the man saying it had seen me by his side at the Gate of Lost Souls, at the Ruyter Mill, in the barracks at Terheyden, on board the Niklaa
sbergen, on corsair galleys and in many other places.

  'You know I'm no deserter,' I stammered. He looked down at the floor, as if aware that he had gone too far. Then he took another sip of wine.

  'Those reluctant to accept another's advice are often prone to err,' he said, barely raising his lips from his mug. 'You are not yet the man you think you are, nor the man you should be.'

  That was the final straw. Almost mad with rage, I turned my back, buckled on my sword and dagger, picked up my hat and headed for the door.

  'Not, at least, the man I would like you to be,' he added. 'Or the man your father would have liked you to be.'

  I paused on the threshold. Suddenly, for some strange reason, I felt above him, above everything.

  'My father ...' I began, then pointed to the bottle of wine on the table. 'At least he died before I saw him so drunk he couldn't tell a fox from a rabbit.'

  He took a step towards me, just one, a murderous glint in his eye. I stood firm, holding his gaze, but he stayed where he was, looking at me hard. Then slowly I closed the door behind me and left the inn.

  The following morning, while the Captain was on guard at Castel Nuovo, I took my trunk and moved into the barracks in Via Monte Calvario.

  From Don Francisco de Quevedo to Don Diego Alatriste y Tenorio Company of Captain Armenta de Medrano Naples Regiment

  My dear Captain,

  Here I am, still at Court, loved by the great and spoiled by the ladies, enjoying the good favour of everyone who counts, although time marches on and I find myself ever more unsteady on my legs and unable to walk now at more than an amble. The one cloud on the horizon is the appointment of Cardinal Zapata to the post of Inquisitor General My old enemy Father Pineda keeps pestering him to include my works on the Index of Prohibited Books. However, God will provide.

  The King is as kind as ever and continues to perfect himself in the art of hunting (of all kinds), as is only natural in a man in the full flower of youth. The Count- Duke, meanwhile, rises a little higher with each shot fired by our second Theodosius, so everyone is happy. However, the sun shines on both kings and commoners: my ancient Aunt Margarita is about to pass on to a better life, and I have reason to believe that her last will and testament will contain something that will raise me a little higher too. Otherwise, there is not much to tell after January's bankruptcy, except to say that the Treasury is surrounded by the usual folk, that is to say, everyone, and a few more besides, not counting the Germans and those Portuguese Jews of whom the Count-Duke is so fond; for it is always far more galling to see a banker thrive than a Turk. As long as the galleons from the Indies continue to arrive, carrying in their holds large quantities of silver and that other sweet blond metal, everything will continue as usual in Spain: bring me some wine, roast me some pork, for as long as I can eat and drink, the maggots must fast

  Of the mudhole that is Flanders I will say nothing, because in Naples, among others of the same profession,

  I am sure you receive more than enough information Suffice it to say that the Catalans continue to deny the King the money he needs for the war and barricade themselves in behind their privileges and their laws. Many predict a bad outcome for such obstinacy. Regarding a new war; which, with Richelieu in the Palais du Louvre, seems inevitable sooner or later, any domestic troubles here would suit France perfectly, for as they say, the Devil looks after his own With respect to your adventures on the wine-dark sea, whenever some brief report is published here about what our galleys have been up to, I imagine that you were involved in every escapade, putting Turks to the sword, and that pleases me. May the Ottoman bite the dust, may you win both laurels and booty, and may I see and savour it all, and drink to your health

  Now, because books are always a source of consolation, I am sending with this letter a copy of my Dreams to distract you when you are not at war. The ink is still fresh, for Sapera the printer has only just sent it to me from Barcelona, Give it to our young Patroclus, who, I know, will find it an edifying read, since, according to the censor Father Tomas Roca, it contains nothing that offends against the Catholic faith or against good manners, and you, I am sure, will be as pleased about that as I am. I trust that Inigo remains in good health by your side, prudently accepts your counsel and bows to your authority. Send him my warm regards and tell him that my negotiations at Court on his behalf are progressing well and with a favourable wind behind them, so if all goes to plan, his entry into the ranks of royal couriers will be as good as guaranteed as soon as he returns to Madrid a fully accredited Miles Gloriosus. Tell him that, as well as adorning his mind with my words, he must not neglect those of Tacitus, Homer and Virgil; for even were he to don the armour of Mars himself, in the tumult of this world, the pen is still mightier than the sword, and of considerably more comfort

  There are more matters in hand about which I cannot tell you in a letter, but all will be well, and God will shed his light on us and bring us good fortune. Suffice it to say that I have been questioned lately about my Italian experiences under the great and much-missed Osuna. However, it is a delicate business the telling of which requires great tact, and the time for that is not yet ripe. By the way, there is a rumour going around that an old and dangerous friend of yours, whom you left in the hands of the Law, was not executed secretly as was first thought Rather (and this is between you and me and has yet to be confirmed) he bought his life by providing valuable information about certain affairs of State. I do not know what stage these negotiations have reached, but it might be a good idea to glance over your shoulder now and then if you hear someone whistle.

  I have more things to tell you, but I will leave them until my next letter. I end this one with regards from La Lebrijana, whose tavern I occasionally visit to honour your absence with one of those dishes she prepares so well and a pitcher of San Martin de Valdeiglesias. She remains a handsome woman, with a fine figure and a still finer face, and is as devoted to you as ever. Other habitues also send their regards: Father Perez, Master Calzas, the apothecary Fadrique and Juan Vicuna, who has just become a grandfather. Martin Saldaha appears to have recovered at last, after spending almost a year hovering on the frontier between this life and the next —

  thanks to that cut you dealt him in the Rastro — and is once again to be seen in the streets with his staff of office, as if he had never left I meet Guadalmedina at the Palace occasionally, but he always avoids any mention of your name. There is much talk lately of him being sent to England or to France as ambassador.

  Take great care of yourself, dear Captain And look after the boy so that he may enjoy many long and happy years.

  A warm embrace from your friend

  Francisco de Quevedo

  It was late afternoon, and, as usual, the Chorrillo was beginning to get lively. Diego Alatriste sauntered round the small crescent-shaped piazza, observing the people sitting outside the taverns, of which there were many, all gathered around the establishment that gave the square its name — a famous inn that brought a flurry of old memories. The name Chorrillo was a Spanish version of the Italian Cerriglio, which was the real name of the inn situated near the Santa Maria Novella church. Its reputation for good wine, food and pleasure dated from the previous century. Almost since the legendary days of Pavia and the Sack of Rome, the place had been frequented by soldiers and by men hoping to enlist, or so they said, and many rogues, ruffians and hired blades were to be found amongst that rabble. Indeed, the term chorrillero or chur- rullero was commonly used in Naples and in Spain to refer to the kind of Spanish soldier, pretend or real, who spent more time throwing dice and emptying wineskins than sticking a sword in a Turk or knifing the odd Lutheran. The type, in short, who would sigh 'Ah, what battles we've seen, comrade, and what wine we've drunk!' when only the bit about the wine was true.

  Alatriste greeted a few acquaintances, but did not stop. Despite the warm weather, he was wearing a short grey cape over his doublet in order to conceal the pistol he had stuck in his belt at the back. A
t that hour and given his intentions, it was an understandable precaution, although the presence of the pistol was not directly related to the villainous faces dotted about the place. There were still a couple of hours of daylight left, a time of day when all kinds of idlers would arrange to meet: braggarts and bully-boys, regular inmates of the Vicaria prison or the military prison of Santiago, who would spend their mornings on the steps of Santa Maria Novella, watching the women going in to mass, and their evenings and nights in the various taverns, discussing the conditions of such and such an enlistment or — revealing the field marshal inside every Spaniard — mulling over stratagems and tactics and declaring how a certain battle should have been won. Almost all were Spanish and had been drawn to Naples either by the army or by a need to earn some money; and all were so proud and fierce that, even if they had been mere cobblers back home, here they boasted of high lineage. It was the same with the Spanish whores, who arrived by the cartload, calling themselves Mendoza or Guzman, so that even their Italian colleagues ended up demanding to be treated as a Signora. This gave rise to the Italian word spagnolata, used to describe any kind of pomposity or boastfulness.