'Anyway,' he said, offering an honourable way out, 'I have an urgent matter to attend to.'
The taller man seemed relieved to hear this. 'We ourselves are on duty in two hours' time,' he remarked.
He, too, had a Spanish accent, but somewhat harsher, from the north, Asturian perhaps. And the tone in which he said these words seemed genuine and dignified. The matter could have ended there had his conciliatory mood been shared by his stocky companion, who was looking at Alatriste with the dark tenacity of a hound who, furious at having lost a fox, is intent on attacking a wolf.
'There's plenty of time.'
Alatriste again stroked his moustache. He sensed that this was not a good situation to be in. Exchanging sword-thrusts with one of these men, or with both, could get him into trouble. He would like to have left things as they stood, but this was not easy. Wounded honour on both sides complicated matters. And he was beginning to find the shorter man's obstinacy irritating.
'Let's not waste words,' he said resolutely.
'Bear in mind,' said the tall man in the same reasonable tone, 'that I couldn't possibly leave my companion alone. You would have to fight me as well. And then, of course, should there be—'
'Enough talk,' the other man interrupted. He turned to Alatriste. 'Where shall we go? To Piedegruta?'
Alatriste gave him a hard look, as if taking the measure of him. Now he really did feel like sticking a foot of steel into this importunate, conceited little cockerel. Damn it. It would be over in a trice. And he would finish off his companion as well, two for the price of one. That way, at least, he would make them pay for the trouble they had caused him.
'The Porta Reale is nearer,' he suggested. 'There's a discreet little meadow just crying out for someone to fall down dead in it.'
The taller man gave a resigned sigh. 'This gentleman will require a witness,' he said to his companion. 'We don't want people saying that we murdered him between us.'
A distracted smile flickered across Alatriste's lips. That was very reasonable, and considerate too. Duels were forbidden in Naples by royal ordinance, and any transgressor would go straight to prison, or to the gallows if there was no one to speak up for him. It was, therefore, best to keep to the rules, especially if people of quality were involved. It would, Alatriste concluded, be a matter of killing one — the shorter man — and leaving the other more or less unscathed, so that he could report that the fight had been fair and square. Although, if there were no witnesses at all, he could simply kill them both and vanish.
'We can sort that out on the way there, if you would be so kind as to wait for me for a moment.' He pointed up the steps, where the alleyway turned to the right. 'I have some business to see to.'
After exchanging a somewhat bemused glance, the two men nodded. Then, calmly turning his back on them — life had taught him on whom it was safe to turn his back and on whom it was not — Alatriste went up the last few steps. He could hear the Spaniards following behind; they seemed to be in no hurry, he noticed, and he was pleased to be dealing with such reasonable people. He went round the corner and through an archway that was as narrow as the rest of the street, and there he found a tavern. Having first checked that he was in the right place and giving no further thought to his startled companions, he adjusted his hat and made sure that his sword and dagger were in position. Then he fastened the buff coat he was wearing under his cape, felt for his pistol and went inside.
It was one of the seamier places in Naples: a courtyard with an arcade along which tables were placed. Chickens pecked about on the floor and there were about twenty or so rough-looking customers — Italians, to judge by their appearance. At some of the tables, cards were being played, watched by the occasional onlooker, who might simply have been enjoying the game or else was spying on the cards of their accomplice's opponent — a trick known as 'Claramonte's mirror'.
Alatriste discreetly went over to the inn-keeper, greased his palm with a silver coin and asked which player was Giacomo Colapietra. A moment later, he was standing by a table where a very thin individual, all skin and bone, wearing a wig and sporting a waxed moustache, was drinking and shuffling cards. He was accompanied by a couple of nasty- looking toughs, the kind who carry sword and shield and whose collars are frayed and stiff with grease.
'Could we have a private word?'
The Florentine, who was busy separating the kings from the jacks, peered up at him inquisitively. Then he curled his lip.
'Nascondo niente a mis amichis
,' he said, indicating his' companions.
His breath stank of cheap, watered-down wine. Alatriste glanced at the aforementioned
amichis.
Obviously Italian. A bold front, but pure pasteboard inside; he needn't worry too much about them, even if they were carrying swords. The Florentine was the only one without a sword, although a dagger a span and a half long hung from his belt.
'I understand you're hiring men who know how to handle a knife, Signor Giacomo.'
lNon bisogno nessuno piu.'
The expression on Alatriste's face was like a sliver of glass.
'Perhaps I'm not making myself clear. Those men are being hired to kill a friend of mine.'
Colapietra stopped shuffling the cards and glanced at his comrades. Then he took a more careful look at Alatriste. A smug smile appeared beneath his waxed moustache.
'I've been told,' Alatriste went on impassively, 'that you have paid for a nasty surprise to be sprung on a certain young Spaniard very close to my heart.'
When he heard this, Colapietra burst into scornful laughter.
'Cazzo,' he said.
Then, with a sly look on his face, he made as if to get up, along with his companions, but was stopped in his tracks. Alatriste had whipped out the pistol from beneath his cape.
'Sit down, all three of you,' he said calmly when he saw that they had grasped the idea. 'Or I'll shit on your whorish mothers.
CapisciT
Silence had fallen all around. Alatriste kept his eyes fixed on the three ruffians, who had turned as pale as wax.
'Keep your hands on the table and away from your swords.'
Still not looking behind him, so as not to reveal any lack of confidence, Alatriste put the pistol in his left hand and
rested his right hand on the hilt of his sword, just in case he needed to unsheathe it in order to make his way to the door. He had already worked out an exit strategy, including his retreat back down the steps. Should things get out of hand, he had only to get as far as the Chorrillo, where there would be no shortage of helping hands. He could, of course, have taken someone with him, Copons or the Moor Gurriato — who was longing to render him just such a service — or some other comrade. However, the theatrical effect would not have been the same. Therein lay the art.
'Now listen, you bastard.'
Pressing the barrel of his pistol to the ashen face of the gambler — who had dropped his cards on the floor — Alatriste brought his own face up close and then quietly, precisely and unequivocally detailed just what he would do to Colapietra, to his innards and to those who had engendered him, if any friend of his should come to harm. A fall in the street or a stumble would be enough for him to settle accounts with the Florentine, whom he would hold responsible for anything from a case of diarrhoea to a fever. And he, Diego Alatriste, resident in the Spanish quarter at the inn of Ana de Osorio, would have no need to hire anyone else to wield the knife, because people usually hired
him
to do such dirty work.
Capisci?
'So, listen well. I'll always be here, or on some dark corner, waiting to slit you open. Do you understand?'
Shaken, Colapietra nodded, the futile dagger at his waist only accentuating his pathetic air. Alatriste's cold, pale eyes seemed to rob him of speech. His wig had shifted to one side and you could smell his fear. The Captain decided against tormenting him further — one could never foresee what would tip a man over the edge.
'Is that clear?'
As clear as day, said Colapietra's silent nod. Moving away a little, the Captain shot a sideways glance at the Florentine's consorts. They were as still as statues and, with angelic innocence, had kept their hands on the table, as if — apart from stealing from their mothers, murdering their father and prostituting their sisters — they had never done anything wrong in their whole sinful lives. Then, without lowering the pistol or removing his hand from the hilt of his sword, Alatriste left the table.
Without entirely turning his back on them and keeping a close eye on the other customers, who sat frozen and dumb, he made his way to the door. There he bumped into the two Spaniards, who had followed him and witnessed the whole episode. He was surprised to see them there, for so concentrated had he been on his own affairs, he had quite forgotten them.
'Right, to business,' he said, ignoring the expression of amazement on their faces.
The three went out into the street together, the other two men still speechless, while Alatriste lowered the hammer on his pistol and put it back in his belt, under his cape. Then he spat on the ground, looking angry and dangerous. The cold fury that had been building up in him since his encounter with these two men, plus the tension of the scene in the tavern, required some outlet. His fingers itched impatiently as he touched the guard of his sword. Christ's blood, he thought, imagining the coming fight. Maybe there was no need to go to Porta Reale to resolve the matter. At the first surly word or gesture, he decided, he would take out his dagger — the street was too narrow for a sword-fight — and stick them like pigs right there, even if it did bring down upon him the Law and the Viceroy himself.
'By my oath,' said the taller man.
He was staring at Diego Alatriste, as if seeing him for the first time, and his companion was doing the same. The latter was no longer frowning, but seemed pensive, even curious.
'Do you want to go ahead with this?' the taller man asked his comrade.
Without answering, the latter kept his eyes fixed on Alatriste. The Captain held his gaze, meanwhile making an impatient gesture as if inviting him to set off to some place where they could resolve their argument. The other man did not stir. Instead, after a moment, he removed his right glove and held out his hand — frank and bare — to Alatriste.
'I'd rather be basted like a runaway slave,' he said, 'than fight a man like this one.'
Chapter 9. THE CATHOLIC KING'S CORSAIRS
The Turk ran up the flag of peace and took in his sails without a fight. The vessel was a black karamuzal with a long hull and a high stern: a two-masted merchant ship that our five galleys had prevented from making full use of her sails by cutting her off from both land and sea. It was our third capture since we had been keeping watch over the channel between the islands of Tinos and Mykonos, a much- frequented route on the way to Constantinople, Chios and Smyrna.
From the moment we came alongside to send a group of infantrymen on board, we could see that this was a very good catch indeed. Crewed by Greeks and Turks, the boat was carrying oil and wine from Candia; soap; leather from Cairo, and other valuable cargo. As passengers, it was carrying some Jews from Salonica — the sort who wear yellow turbans — and they came replete with silver coins. That day we used our fingers more than our swords, for we spent half an hour plundering the ship, and everything we touched stuck to our fingertips. Indeed when one soldier from another galley either fell or threw himself into the water to avoid the officers who were trying to impose order, he preferred to drown rather than give up his ill-gotten gains.
The karamuzal was a Turkish vessel, a worthy prize, so we sent it off to Malta with a Greek crew and a few of our soldiers. The two renegades (whom we hoped the Inquisition would deal with later), eight Turks, three Albanians and five Jews on board were shared out among the five galleys and set to the oars. The
Hebrew race not being built for rowing, one of the Jews died two days later, either because he was ill or because he could not bear to see himself a miserable slave. The others were then ransomed for less than a thousand
sequins
by the monks of Patmos, who later released them, as they usually did, charging
them
interest — for although the monks of Patmos spoke Greek, they counted money in Genoese.
The two renegades were allocated to the
Mulata.
One was Spanish, from Ciudad Real, and in an attempt to improve his lot, he gave us some interesting information of which I will tell you more in due course. First, though, I should say that our campaign was proving highly profitable. Back on board, our hair once again slick with tar, our skin with salt and our clothes with brine, we had set off from Naples with three galleys — the
Mulata
, the
Caridad Negra
and the
Virgen del Rosario.
Each was newly careened and well stocked with enough supplies and soldiers for a voyage of two months through the Aegean and along the Anatolian coast, whose islands were inhabited by Greeks dominated by the Turks. Once we had left Capri behind us, we met up with two Maltese galleys off Fossa de San Giovanni — the
Cruz de Rodas
and the
San Juan Bautista —
and sailed with them in convoy as far as the small islands near Corfu. From there, having taken on salt meat and fresh water, we followed the Morea coast past Kefalonia and Zante — which belonged to the Venetians — and then skirted round the island of Sapienza. We took on more water at the mills of Coron, where the Turkish artillery fired on us from the town, but missed. After that, we headed east along the Mayna channel and past Cap Sant Angelo, where we entered the limpid waters of the archipelago, blue in the gulf and crystalline green near the shores, in order to do as Velez de Guevara proclaimed in
The Terror of the Turks: