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 delicious 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.
But let us go back to the prosperous, fascinating Naples of my youth, and add to this the restless company of my comrade Jaime Correas. We would hang around convents — like would- be suitors to the nuns — although we spent Fridays and Saturdays with the local roughs down by the harbour, bathing in the sea on hot nights or else visiting any balcony or shuttered window likely to conceal the eyes of some woman willing to be courted. And then there were the taverns — whose sign, in Italy, was a sprig of bay — the gaming dens and the brothels. Although, with regard to the latter, I was as restrained as my companion was unbuttoned; because, whereas Jaime would go with any whore who said 'What lovely eyes you have', I, fearful of the diseases that can afflict both health and purse, would keep out of the way, drinking wine and engaging in polite conversation, restricting myself to more peripheral activities, which, while pleasurable, carried little risk. And because — all credit to Captain Alatriste — I had been brought up to be a discreet and generous lad, and because people prefer a clock that tells the time to one that merely shows it, I was always well thought of in the elegant inns near Chiaia beach, in the bawdyhouses in Via Catalana or the Mandraccio or Chorrillo taverns. The ladies there were fond of me and found my youth and my discretion rather touching; some even occasionally ironed — and starched — my cuffs, collars and shirts. The other fellows who grazed in the same pastures
all addressed me as 'friend' and 'comrade', for they knew, too that thanks to my experiences at the Captain's side, I was by profession a swordsman, quick to unsheathe both sword and dagger, and light on my feet. That and having money to spend always gives one a good reputation among ruffians, roughnecks, cutthroats and ne'er-do-wells.
'There's a letter for you,' said Captain Alatriste.
That morning, when he had finished guard duty in Castel Nuovo, he had passed by Don Francisco's sentry post and picked up the sealed letter bearing my name. It was now lying on the table in our room in the inn of Ana de Osorio, in the Spanish quarter. The Captain was looking at me, saying nothing, only half his face and one tip of his moustache lit from behind as he stood by the window. I went over to the letter slowly, as if approaching enemy territory. I recognised the writing at once. And I swear to God that, despite all the time that had passed, despite the distance, my age and everything that had happened since that intense and terrible night at El Escorial, I experienced an almost imperceptible twinge in the scar on my back, as if I had just felt on it the brush of warm lips after the touch of cold steel. My heart stopped for a second, only to begin again, beating wildly. Finally, I reached out my hand to pick up the letter, and then the Captain turned and looked me straight in the eye. He seemed about to say something, but instead, after a moment, he grabbed his hat and belt and walked straight past me, leaving me alone in the room.
Senor Don Inigo Balboa Aguirre
Company of Captain Don Justino Armenta de Medrano
of the Spanish Infantry in Naples
My dear soldier,
It has not proved easy to find you, although, even far from Spain, I am still kept in touch with what goes on there through relatives and acquaintances. That is how I learned that you had returned to the army in the company of that Captain Batistre or El- Triste, and that, not satisfied with slitting the throats of heretics in Flanders, you have now turned your attentions to the Turk, always, of course, in support of our universal monarchy and of the one true religion, which does you credit as a valiant, hard-working gentleman.
If you think that I am living here in exile, you are quite wrong. New Spain is a novel and exciting place, full of possibilities, and my Uncle Don Luis' name and connections are as useful here as they were at Court; even more so, given that letters take such a long time to come and go. I need say only that his position remains unchanged, indeed he has grown in prestige and fortune, despite the false accusations levelled against him last year, in relation to that incident at El EscoriaL I hope to see him fully rehabilitated in the eyes of the King, our lord, for he still has influential friends and family at Court I have good reason to believe this, too, for we have enough powder for a countermine, as you might say in your soldier's jargon. In Taxco, where I live, we produce the best and most beautiful silver in the world, and a large part of the silver carried on the fleets to Cadiz and Spain passes through my uncle's hands, that is, through mine. As Father Emilio Bocanegra would say — and I'm sure you will remember that saintly man as fondly as I do — the ways of the Lord are unknowable, especially in our Catholic homeland, which is the bulwark of the faith and of so many fine virtues.
As for you and me, a lot of time has passed and many things have happened since our last encounter, of which I remember every moment and every detail, as, I hope, da you. I have grown within and without, and I would like us to compare such changes at closer quarters; and so I very much hope that we will meet face to face on some not too distant day, when this period of difficulties, voyages and distance is a memory. As you well know, I am good at waiting. Meanwhile, if you still harbour the same feelings for me, I demand an immediate response in your own hand, assuring me that time, distance and the women of Italy and the Levant have not erased from you the marks left by my hands, my lips and my dagger. If not, then damn you, and I wish for you the worst evils in the world, imprisonment in Algiers, a spell on the galleys and impalement by a Turk. However, if you are still faithful to she who has not yet killed you, I swear I will reward you with unimaginable torment and joy.
As you see, I think I still love you, but don't rely on that or on anything else. You will find out only when we are once more face to face, looking into each other's eyes. Until then, stay alive and avoid any unpleasant mutilations. I have interesting plans for you.
Good luck, soldier. And when you attack your next Turkish galley, call out my name. It pleases me to think that I, and my name, have been on the lips of a brave man
Yours,
Angelica de Alquezar
After a moment's hesitation, I went out into the street. I found the Captain — doublet unfastened, hat, sword and dagger on a stool beside him — sitting at the door of the inn, watching
the passers-by. I was holding the letter in my hand and generously held it out to him. He didn't even want to look at it and merely shook his head.
'The name "Alquezar" has always brought us bad luck,' he said.
'She's my business,' I replied.
I saw him shake his head again, distracted. He seemed to be thinking about something else. The inn was on Three Kings Hill, and he had his eyes fixed on the junction of our street with that of San Matteo. In between two miserable shops, one selling coal, coke and kindling and the other tallow candles, some mules, tethered to rings on the wall, were liberally sprinkling the ground with their droppings. The sun was high, and above us the washing hung out to dry cast alternating rectangles of light and shade on to the ground.
'She wasn't your business alone when you were in the dungeons of the Inquisition or when we boarded the
Niklaas- bergen.'
The Captain was speaking softly, as if thinking aloud rather than talking to me. 'Nor was she only your business in the cloisters at Minillas or in El Escorial. She implicated friends of ours. People died.'
'She wasn't the problem. She was used.'
He turned slowly to face me and then glanced at the letter in my hand. I looked away, embarrassed. Then I folded up the letter and put it in my pocket. Some of the sealing wax had stuck to my nails, like dried blood.
'I love her,' I said.
'I heard you say that once in Breda, when you'd received just such a letter from her.'
'Now I love her more.'
He said nothing for some time. I leaned one shoulder against the wall. We were watching various people pass by: soldiers, women, kitchen hands, servants and errand boys.
The whole quarter, built by private individuals in the previous century at the instigation of the Viceroy Don Pedro de Toledo, housed most of the three thousand Spanish soldiers in the Naples regiment, for there was only room for a few in the barracks. The area was an unlovely, architectural mishmash of a place, but it served its purpose. There were no public edifices, only inns, hostels and tenements with rooms to let, in buildings of four or even five storeys. It was, in short,
a
vast military base populated by soldiers either just passing through or garrisoned there, and we all lived cheek by jowl. Some were married to Italian women, or to women who had come over from Spain and had children. We lived alongside the locals who rented us lodgings, fed us and, in short, made a living, and not a bad one, from what the military spent. On that day, as on every day, while the Captain and I were talking at the door to the inn, women called to one another from the windows above, old people leaned out to take the air, and loud voices, Spanish and Neapolitan, echoed from inside the houses. Some small ragged boys were shouting in both languages as they pursued a poor, tormented dog up the hill; they had tied a broken jug to its tail and were chasing it and calling it a Jew.
'There are some women ...' the Captain began, then stopped, frowning, as if he had forgotten the rest of the sentence.
For some unknown reason, I was irritated. Twelve years ago, in that same Spanish quarter, my former master — with too much wine in his belly and too much anger in his heart — had killed his best friend and marked the face of a woman with a dagger.
'I don't think you're in a position to give me lessons about women,' I said, raising my voice slightly. 'Especially not here, in Naples.'
Touche. His green eyes lit up with an ice-cold flash of lightning. Anyone else would have been afraid of that look; I wasn't. He himself had taught me not to be afraid of anything and anyone.
'Nor in Madrid,' I added, 'with poor Lebrijana crying her eyes out while Maria de Castro ...'
Now it was my turn to leave a sentence unfinished, uncertain how to continue, for the Captain had slowly got to his feet and was looking at me hard, from very close to, with eyes that were the same colour as the wintry water in the Flanders canals. I brazenly held his gaze, but swallowed hard when I saw him smooth his moustache.