The Pirates of the Levant (22 page)

'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. At 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.

In Cordoba and fair Seville,

I've property a-plenty.

My parents, born into the gentry,

Are lords of all Castile.

There was no shortage of natives of the region either, as well as Sicilians, Sardinians and people from other parts of

Italy; a whole panoply of cutpurses, counterfeiters, gamesters, cape-thieves, deserters, ruffians and scum, gathered together to exchange blasphemies, perjuries and other such nonsense. Indeed the Chorrillo in Naples could have been cited alongside such illustrious locations as the steps in Seville, the Potro in Cordoba, La Sapienza in Rome or the Rialto in Venice.

Leaving the inn behind him, Alatriste strode across this noble venue and went up an alleyway known as the steps of the Piazzetta, which were so narrow there was barely room for two men wearing swords to pass. The smell of wine from the drinking-dens, from which floated the buzz of conversation and the tuneless singing of drunkards, mingled with the stench of urine and filth. And when the Captain stepped aside to avoid treading in some of that filth, he inadvertently got in the way of two soldiers who were descending. They were dressed in the Spanish style, albeit unostentatiously: hats, swords and boots.

'Why don't you damn well go and get in someone else's way?' one of them muttered angrily in Castilian, and made as if to continue down the steps.

Alatriste slowly smoothed his moustache. Both were military men in their late thirties. The man who had spoken was short and stocky and had a Galician accent. He was wearing expensive gloves, and his clothes, although of a sober cut, were made of good cloth. The other man was tall and thin and had a melancholy air about him. Both had moustaches and plumed hats.

'I would be delighted to do so,' he replied simply, 'and in your company too, if you have no other engagements.'

The two men had stopped.

'In our company? Whatever for?' asked the shorter man brusquely.

Alatriste shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. Indeed,

he thought, there was no other possible response. There was always one's wretched reputation to consider.

'To discuss a few of the finer points of fencing. You know the kind of thing: length of step, keeping the blade in line, feint and riposte ...'

'Upon my oath,' murmured the short man.

He did not say 'upon my oath as a gentleman', as was usual among those who were far from being one. Alatriste saw that both men were studying him carefully and that they had noticed the scars on his face as well as the sword at his waist. His left hand rested almost casually on the hilt of his dagger and they couldn't see the pistol hidden beneath his cape, but it was there. Alatriste sighed. This was not part of his plan, but if that was how things were, then so be it. As for the pistol, he hoped not to be obliged to use it.
He
had brought it along more as a threat than as a precaution and had another purpose in mind for it.

'My friend is not in the best of moods,' said the taller of the soldiers in a conciliatory tone. 'He has just met with a problem.'

'What I have met with is my affair,' said the other man gruffly.

'Well, I'm sorry to say this,' replied Alatriste coolly, 'but if he doesn't mend his manners, he'll soon have another problem to deal with.'

'Be careful what you say,' said the taller man, 'and don't be deceived by my companion's appearance. You would be very surprised to learn his name.'

Alatriste had not taken his eyes off the shorter man. 'Well then, to avoid confusion, he should either dress in accordance with his name or choose a name in accordance with his dress.'

The two companions looked at each other, uncertain what to do, and Alatriste moved his hand away from the hilt of

his dagger. They had the manners of decent people and did not appear to be men who would knife you in the street or in the back. And they were certainly not the kind to queue up on pay day at the arsenal to collect their four
escudos.
Beneath their soldiers' clothes one could sense that they were refined, clean and serious, employed by some noble or general, or else the venturesome sons of good family who were spending time in the army to add lustre to their reputation. Flanders and Italy were full of such men. He wondered what had thrown the shorter, stockier man into such a rage. A woman perhaps. Or some bad luck at the card table. Whatever the motive, he didn't care: everyone had their own problems.