The King's Gold (20 page)

Don Gaspar de Guzmán, Conde-Duque de Olivares and minister to our king, wore a broad Walloon collar and, embroidered on his breast, the cross of Calatrava; the fierce points of his vast mustache rose up almost as far as his wary, penetrating eyes, which shifted constantly, restlessly, back and forth—identifying, recording, recognizing. The king and queen stopped only rarely and always at the count-duke’s suggestion; and when this happened, the king or the queen, or both at once, would gaze upon some fortunate person who for whatever reason—because of services performed or through influential contacts—was deemed deserving of that honor. In such cases, the women curtsied low to the floor, and the men bowed from the waist, their hats having already been doffed, of course; and then, after the gift of this moment of contemplation and silence, the king and queen would continue their solemn march. Behind them came certain select Spanish nobles and grandees, amongst them the Conde de Guadalmedina; as he approached us, Alatriste and Quevedo, along with everyone else, removed their hats, and the count dropped a few words into the ear of the count-duke, who bestowed on our group one of his fierce looks, as merciless as an indictment. The count-duke, in turn, whispered into the ear of the king, who stopped walking, brought his gaze down from the heights, and fixed it on us. While the count-duke was still murmuring into his ear, the king, his prognathous bottom lip protruding, rested his faded blue eyes on Captain Alatriste.

“They’re talking about you,” muttered Quevedo.

I glanced at the captain. He remained very upright, his hat in one hand and his other hand resting on the hilt of his sword, with his stern, mustachioed profile and serene, soldierly head looking straight at the king, at the monarch whose name he had shouted out on battlefields and for whose gold he had risked life and limb only three nights before. I saw that the captain seemed unimpressed and unabashed. All his awkwardness over the formal nature of the event had vanished, and there remained only his frank, dignified gaze, which held that of the king with the equanimity of one who owes nothing and expects nothing. I remembered the moment when the old Cartagena regiment mutinied at Breda and I was tempted to join the rebels, and how, when the ensigns were leaving the ranks in order not to be tainted by the revolt, Alatriste had grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and forced me to leave with them, uttering the words “Your king is your king.”

And it was there, in the courtyard of the Reales Alcázares in Seville, that I finally began to understand the meaning of that singular dogma, which I had failed to understand at the time: the loyalty professed by Captain Alatriste was not to the fair-haired young man standing before him, not to His Catholic Majesty, not to the one true religion, or to the idea that either one of them represented on Earth, but to that one personal rule, chosen for want of anything better, and which was all that remained from the shipwreck of more generalized, more enthusiastic ideas that had dissolved with the loss of innocence and youth. Regardless of what the rule was—right or wrong, logical or illogical, just or unjust, justifiable or not—it was the rule that mattered to men like Diego Alatriste as a way of imposing some kind of order, or structure, on the apparent chaos of life. And thus, paradoxically, my master respectfully doffed his hat before his king not out of resignation or discipline but out of despair. After all, since there were no old gods in whom one could trust, no great words that could be bandied about during combat, it was a salve to everyone’s honor—or, at least, better than nothing at all—to have a king for whom one could fight and before whom one could doff one’s hat, even if one did not believe in him. And so Captain Alatriste held firmly to that principle, just as, had he given his loyalty to someone else, he might have pushed his way through that very same throng and knifed the king to death, without a thought for the consequences.

At that point, something unusual happened to interrupt my thoughts. The Conde-Duque de Olivares concluded his short report, and the monarch’s usually impassive eyes now took on an expression of curiosity and remained fixed on the captain. Then our fourth Philip gave the very slightest of approving nods and, slowly raising his hand to his august breast, removed the gold chain he was wearing and handed it to the count-duke. The latter, smiling thoughtfully, weighed it in his hand for a moment and then, to the general amazement of all those present, came toward us.

“His Majesty would like you to accept this chain,” he said.

He said this in the stern, arrogant tone so typical of him, piercing the captain with the two hard, black points of his eyes, a smile still visible beneath his fierce mustache.

“Gold from the Indies,” he added with evident irony.

Alatriste turned pale. He stood stock-still and stared at the count-duke uncomprehendingly. Olivares was still proffering him the chain in his outstretched palm.

“Well, don’t keep me waiting all day,” Olivares snapped.

The captain seemed finally to come to. And once he had recovered his composure, he at last took the chain, and, stammering out a few words of gratitude, looked again at the king. The latter continued to observe the captain with some curiosity, and meanwhile Olivares returned to his monarch’s side; Guadalmedina stood, beaming, amongst the other astonished courtiers; and the cortège prepared to move on. Then Captain Alatriste bowed his head respectfully; the king again, almost imperceptibly, nodded, and the procession set off.

Proud of my master, I looked defiantly around me at all those inquisitive faces, staring in astonishment at the captain, wondering who the devil this fortunate man was, to whom the count-duke himself had presented a gift from the king. Don Francisco de Quevedo was chuckling delightedly to himself and clicking his fingers, muttering about a need to wet both his whistle and his words at Becerra’s inn, where he had to set down some lines that had just occurred to him:

“If what I have I do not fear to lose,
Nor yet desire to have what I do not,
I’m safe from Fortune’s wheel whate’er I choose,
Let plaintiff or defendant be my lot.”

He recited these lines to us for our pleasure, as gleefully as he always did when he found a good rhyme, a good fight, or a good mug of wine.

“So to the last, dear Alatriste, keep
Alone, alone, until the final sleep.”

As for the captain, he remained standing amongst the other guests, not budging, his hat still grasped in his hand, watching the royal cortège process through the Alcázar gardens. And to my surprise, I saw a cloud pass over his face, as if what had just happened had, suddenly and symbolically, bound him far more tightly than he wished to be bound. The less a man owes, the freer he is, and according to the worldview of my master—capable of killing for a doubloon or a word—there were things never written or spoken that he considered to be as binding as a friendship, a discipline, or an oath. And while, beside me, don Francisco de Quevedo continued improvising lines from his new sonnet, I knew, or sensed, that the king’s gift of a gold chain weighed on Captain Alatriste as heavily as if it were made of iron.

EXTRACTS FROM

SOME FINE POETRY

WRITTEN BY VARIOUS WITS OF

THIS CITY OF SEVILLE

Printed in the seventeenth century, without a printer’s mark,
and preserved in the “Conde de Guadalmedina”
section of the Archive and Library of
the Duques de Nuevo Extremo (Seville).

ATTRIBUTED TO DON FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO

The last evening and end of the ruffian Nicasio Ganzúa,
who died in Seville from a very bad sore throat
brought on by the rope.

FIRST BALLAD

In old Seville town, in its dark, lofty prison

The cream of the thieves are now gathered together.

They have come to this place for a grand celebration,

A banquet in aid of Nicasio Ganzúa,

For, at dawn, he’ll be issued his very last passport.

And it’s thus only right, in His Majesty’s prison

For a solemn event to be given due weight;

But because it’s the king who is giving the orders

No time must be lost—
tempus fugit,
my friends.

Here they come, brothers all of the criminal class,

Yes, those who are paid by the sum of their sword thrusts

And all of them dressed in the deepest of mourning,

Though armed to the teeth with glistening steel

(the jailer meanwhile has his itchy palm greased

with the silvery glitter of pieces of eight).

How they praise to the skies the condemnèd man,

Though their praises are not of a sacred kind,

See them sit round a table—the flower of ruffians—

For no honest rogue would ever dare miss

This wake for a man, for a hero illustrious.

How peacock-proud are these would-be nobles

(To be sure, in this gathering, no women are found)

With their hats pulled down low o’er their faces, like grandees,

As they drink down whole mugs of the reddest of wines

And toast, with huzzahs, the health of Saint Glug,

For to men of the world he’s their patron saint.

All drink to the fame of the bravest of comrades

Who, to judge by the barrel of wine they imbibe,

Must indeed be a man most worthy of honor.

At the fore, is the handsome young Ginés el Lindo

Who, they say, is a practicing doctor of fencing,

Even though he’s a queer and strums the guitar.

Nearby, Saramago, that fine Portuguese,

Who’s always prepared to spout some philosophy;

For sure, he’s a doctor
in utriusque

And wields with a flourish both a pen and a sword.

Another fine rogue can be seen paying court—

from the town of Chipiona and sharp as a tack—

by name, El Bravo de los Galeones.

Then, Guzmán Ramírez, a man of few words,

Grabs a new deck of cards and is ready to play

With Rojo Carmona, his companion at table,

Who’s known as a notable trickster to boot.

Many others there are in the thievery line,

Who love to distraction the pockets of others;

A newcomer there is, Diego Alatriste,

Who has come like a brother to be with Ganzúa.

And sitting beside him there’s Íñigo Balboa,

A young man who showed at the great Siege of Breda

His courage in fighting—no coward was he.

While they’re singing their songs and playing at cards,

While they carry on drinking the wine red as blood,

They are keeping a courteous eye on Ganzúa,

For that is the least decent people can do—

Come when they’re needed, give care without stint,

For this kind of misfortune may one day be theirs.

SECOND BALLAD

They were deep in their game and their serious drinking

When in came the law so to read out the sentence

And all for the card-playing prisoner’s sake.

But no interest he showed in these sonorous words,

Though his precious life’s blood depended on them;

More concerned was he then with the scoring of points.

When the scribe and the guard were about to depart,

A monk Augustinian offered confession,

Which was straightway declined by Nicasio Ganzúa.

Thus he turned down the chance to sing out at vespers

The tune that he never had warbled at prime.

When the monk and the officers finally left,

And Ganzúa was carefully playing his hand,

He found at the end that he held a trump card

And so won the game and collected his winnings.

Then, dealing again, he smoothed his mustache,

And in tones low and grave he addressed his confreres:

“I am helpless, my friends, I am stuck in this prison,

Till my neck is caressed by the rope in the morning

With a love so intense it will certainly kill me,

For I’ll never escape its tight’ning embrace.

So allow me, my friends, a list of farewells,

My last will and testament, mark every word!

Were it not for the stool pigeon who sang out too loudly

I’d be free, and not stupidly facing my death.

I ask you, friends all, give that slimiest of squealers

A good length of steel through the throat—make him bleed—

For to leave him the freedom to wag his long tongue

Is a curse and a plague and as deadly as sin.

Item Two: If you please, give a fistful of wishes

To the one who betrayed me—that traitorous jeweler—

Hit him hard in the chops when you give him my greetings,

For he certainly played me the vilest of tricks—

Thus make sure he will always remember my name.

Item Three: Stick your knives several times in that catchpole,

That turd, Mojarrilla, who handled me roughly

When I was arrested. And as for the judge

With his hand-me-down robe and his high noble ways,

Just give him the same, make him bleed for his pains.

And lastly, my whore, Maripizca,

Of clean blood and habits; my friends, look to her,

For though she’s no child, proper “ladies” like her

Should not be alone when they walk down the street.

I close on this hour, on this date, in this place,

This the very last will of the ruffian Ganzúa.”

Every heart there was moved and everyone stood

And did swear and did promise, as trusty friends should,

To execute, faithfully, all of his wishes.

THIRD BALLAD

Ganzúa, awaiting his execution,

Was dressed in the finest of clothes,

He had never before looked so handsome as then

On the night all his friends watched with him.

He was wearing a doublet of fine purple cloth

Whose full sleeves were slashed
à la mode,

And green canvas breeches that were held up in style

By a belt that was four inches wide,

And shoes for a light Sunday promenade,

Adorned with two bright scarlet bows,

Each shoe with a silvery buckle that glittered

Against the deep black of the leather.

Early next morning, to enter the square,

He changed to a simple serge gown

As befitting a man who was soon to be led

To the scaffold’s bare, high wooden hill—

Quite unlike the brave judges who put on their gowns

But stay safe and sound in their court.

He rode from the prison upon a gray mule,

Town crier stepping before

And carrying a cross and municipal rod

While he listed the prisoner’s crimes.

Handsome Ganzúa rode on without falter—

No trace of last night’s carousing—

And greeted with courtly politeness and grace

All those he had known, great and small.

He looked quite serene, like a priest in procession,

So that one almost envied his fate.

No stumble he made as he climbed up the steps,

Though one step was broken and gaping.

And when he was standing at last on the boards

He turned to the crowd and spoke thus:

“Death is of little importance, my friends,

But since by the king it arrives,

Let no one deny the evident truth

That mine is an honorable one.”

All nodded and gravely accepted his words,

His whore and executors too.

And they thought it was equally proper and right

That his dear Maripizca had hired

A chorus of blind men to sing for his soul.

A sermon then followed their prayers,

And he recited the Creed with no hint of a tremor,

For it’s always a dreadful and shameful dishonor

When infamous ruffians break down and blubber.

The fell executioner stepped up behind

And placing the noose ’round the prisoner’s neck,

Said these words: “O, my brother, I ask your forgiveness,”

Then quickly he tightened the noose until death.

Our brave Ganzúa did not flinch or grimace,

For death, to him, was as naught,

But with quiet indifference he bore himself

As though he were sunk in thought.