his patience. It was at this juncture that the elder son of don Vicente de la Cruz, his hat pulled low on his forehead, caught up with us, though he gave no sign of recognizing us. I observed, however, by the way he was walking and guardedly looking around, that he too was inspecting Las Benitas’s walls.
At that moment a small incident occurred that I relate here because it is a good example of Diego Alatriste’s nature. We had paused a moment as the captain pretended to be adjusting his belt in order to examine the lock of the door, when we were overtaken by a foursome leaving mass: a pair of foppish young men accompanying two rather common, but beautiful, women. One of the men, the one wearing a velvet doublet with slashed sleeves, a multitude of ribbons and bows, and a silver-embroidered band around the crown of his hat, bumped into me and then, ill-humoredly, shoved me aside, calling me a little pissant. I was not as yet carrying a dagger, because of my youth, but a few years later that discourtesy would have cost him, however well dressed he might be, a stab in the groin with the dagger. Soon, in Flanders, I would carry one as if I’d never been without it.
But at that time I still had no choice but to eat insults without seasoning and without recourse, unless Captain Alatriste determined to take my defense upon himself. Which is precisely what he did, and I must tell you that his actions led me to consider that, despite his often surly ways and silences, the captain held me in esteem. And if Your Mercies will forgive me, I will say that he had good reason,
The fact is that when he heard this dandy debase me, the captain turned, slowly, serenely. On his face was the look of glacial calm that those who know him consider fair notice that it is advisable to take three steps back.
“By God, Inigo”—the captain seemed to be speaking to me, although he was staring hard at the offender—“I do believe that this caballero has confused you with some rogue of his acquaintance.”
I said nothing, not a word, for it was obvious what was happening. The coxcomb, hearing himself addressed, had stopped, and his companions with him. He was the kind of man who uses his own shadow as a kind of mirror. At the captain’s “By God,” he had placed a white hand displaying a large gold and diamond ring upon the guard of his sword, and with the evident sarcasm of that “caballero,” his fingers drummed a tune on the pommel. His arrogant eyes looked Diego Alatriste up and down. When he had completed the inspection, however—after noting the captain’s sword with the guard scratched and nicked from other blades, the battle scars on his face, the cold eyes beneath the broad-brimmed hat—the arrogance was not quite as noticeable as it had been.
Even so, he replied. “And what happens,” he said disagreeably, “if I am
His answer had sounded firm, which was in the man’s favor, although that final hesitation had not escaped me, nor the swift glances he threw toward his companion and the two ladies. In those days, a man might well let himself be killed for the sake of his reputation, and the only things that could not be forgiven were cowardice and dishonor. After all, honor was supposed to be the exclusive patrimony of the hidalgo; and the hidalgo, unlike the plebeian who bore all the tributes and taxes, neither worked nor contributed to the royal treasury. The famous plays of Lope, Tirso, and Calderon often made reference to the chivalric tradition of earlier centuries, but what actually set the tone of the society was the prevalence of scoundrels and swindlers of every stripe. Those hyperboles of honor and dishonor glossed over the business—quite serious, of course—of living without working or paying taxes.
Very slowly, taking his time, the captain ran two fingers over his mustache. And then, with the same hand, without ostentation or exaggeration, he pulled back his cape, further exposing, in addition to his sword, the dagger he wore over his kidney, on the left side.
“What happens,” Alatriste replied in measured tones, “if you are not confused? Well, perhaps Your Mercies may find the troublemaker whom I am sure you have mistaken for this lad, if you will come along with me to the de la Vega gate.”
The de la Vega gate, which was not far away, was one of the places on the outskirts of the city where men went to resolve their quarrels. And the gesture of freeing up, without further preamble, the Toledo and Biscay weapons had not gone unnoticed by anyone present. Nor had the plural, “Your Mercies,” which brought his companion into the game.
The women raised their eyebrows, intrigued, for their gender was a guarantee of safe conduct, allowing them to be privileged spectators. For his part, the second individual—another popinjay distinguished by his goatee, large lace collar, and suede gloves—who had witnessed the prologue with a superior smile, suddenly stopped smiling. It was one thing to go for a stroll with a friend and to bluster a bit before the two ladies, but it was a far different matter to find oneself in a confrontation with a fellow who had the look of a soldier and who, out of the blue, was suggesting they bypass formalities and settle the business immediately with their swords. The companion’s expression said,
“The boy was not to blame,” said the companion.
He had spoken like an hidalgo, voice firm and calm, but conciliation was evident in his words. He wanted to remove himself from the center of things and in addition provide his friend with a way out, giving him a foothold whereby he could end the incident without his doublet slashed as generously as his sleeves.
I saw the dandy uncurl the fingers of his right hand and then close them again. He hesitated. Things could be worse. By pure arithmetic, it was two against one, and had he discovered the least sign of discomfort or emotion in Diego Alatriste he might have gone forward—on de la Vega hill, or right there. But there was something about the captain’s cool demeanor, an indifference so absolute that it transcended his immobility and his silences that counseled “proceed with great caution.” I knew exactly what was going through his head: a man who challenges a pair of well-armed strangers either is very sure of himself and his sword, or he is mad. And neither of the two possibilities was to be treated lightly. Even so, I have to say that the caballero was not fainthearted. He did not want to fight, but neither did he want to lose face; so for a few instants more he locked eyes with the captain. Then he looked toward me, as if seeing me for the first time.
“I agree that the boy was not to blame,” he said finally.
The women smiled, though not without a little disappointment at being deprived of entertainment. The friend contained a sigh of relief. As for me, it did not matter whether the pretty-boy apologized or not. I was attuned to Captain Alatriste’s profile beneath the brim of his hat, his thick mustache, his chin, badly shaved that morning, his scars, the gray-green, expressionless eyes that had looked into a void only he could contemplate. Then I looked at his worn and mended doublet, the ancient cape, the modest collar washed time and time again by Caridad la Lebrijana, the dull reflection of the sun on the sword guard and dagger grip protruding from his belt. And I was conscious of a dual and magnificent privilege: that man had been my father’s friend, and now he was also mine, ready to fight on my behalf over a mere word.
Or maybe, in truth, he was doing it for himself. Perhaps the king’s wars, the patrons who hired his sword, the
