he wore stuck in his belt.
“Can we talk?”
Alatriste looked first at him, then at his own belt, which was lying on the ground, by the wall, wrapped around his sword and dagger.
“In your role as lieutenant of constables or as a friend?” he asked coolly.
“Christ’s blood, Diego, be serious, man!”
The captain regarded his friend’s bearded face, and the scars, which all had the same origin as his own. The beard, he remembered vividly, half concealed the mark left by a blow delivered twenty years before, during an attack on the city walls of Ostend. The scar on Saldana’s cheek and the one on Alatriste’s forehead, above his left eyebrow, dated from that same day.
“All right,” he said, “we can talk.”
They walked up toward Plaza Mayor, under the arcade that occupies the latter part of Calle de Toledo. They were as silent as if they had both been hauled up before a notary, with Saldana putting off saying what he had to say and Alatriste in no hurry to find out. The captain had fastened his doublet and put on his hat with its faded red feather; he wore the lower half of his cloak caught up and draped over his arm, and on his left side, his sword clanked against his dagger.
“It’s a delicate matter,” said Saldana at last.
“I imagined it was from the look on your face.”
They eyed each other intently for a moment, then continued on past some gypsy women who were dancing in the shade of the arcade. The Plaza Mayor—with its tall houses, lozenge-shaped roof tiles, and the gilded ironwork on the Casa de la Panaderia glittering in the sunlight—was packed with whores and errand boys and ordinary passersby, who strolled amongst carts and crates of fruit and vegetables, past bread stalls with nets placed over the loaves to protect them from thieves, past barrels of wine—“No water added—guaranteed,” cried the vendors. Shop-keepers stood at the doors of the shops and in front of the stalls that filled the areas under the arches. Rotten vegetables were piled up on the ground along with horse droppings, and the buzzing of swarms of flies mingled with the cries of those selling their various wares: “Eggs and milk—fresh today!” “Juicy cantaloupe melons!” “Asparagus—soft as butter!” “Buy some tender green beans and get a bunch of parsley free!” They headed over to the right-hand side of the square, avoiding the sellers of hemp and esparto, whose stalls filled the square as far as Calle Imperial.
“I don’t honestly know where to start, Diego.”
“Just get straight to the point.”
Saldana, as slow as ever, took off his hat and ran one hand over his bald pate.
“I’ve been told to give you a warning.”
“Who by?”
“It doesn’t matter who. What matters is that it comes from high enough up for you to pay due attention. If you don’t, you could lose life or liberty.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“This is no joke, damn it. I’m serious.”
“And where do you fit in?”
Saldana put his hat back on, waved distractedly to some catchpoles chatting by the Portal de la Carne, and again shrugged.
“Look, Diego. Possibly, despite yourself, you have friends without whom you should by rights be lying in an alleyway with your throat slit, or in prison somewhere with your legs in irons. The matter was discussed in some detail very early this morning, until someone recalled a service you had rendered in Cadiz or somewhere. I’ve no idea what it was, nor do I care, but I swear that if that someone hadn’t spoken up in your favor, I wouldn’t be here on my own, but accompanied by a lot of other men armed to the teeth. Do you follow?”
“I follow.”
“Are you going to see that woman again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, please, for the love of all that’s holy, don’t be so stupid.”
They walked a little way in silence. Finally, outside Gaspar Sanchez’s cake shop, next to the arch, Saldana stopped and took a sealed letter from his purse.
“Enough talking. Let this letter speak for itself.”
Alatriste took the note and studied it, turning it around in his fingers. There was nothing written on the outside, not a name or a word. He broke the seal, unfolded the piece of paper, and, when he recognized the handwriting, looked mockingly at his old friend.
“Since when have you acted as go-between, Martin?”
Saldana frowned, stung.
“Christ’s blood,” he said. “Just shut up and read it, will you?”
And this is what Alatriste read:
“I imagine,” commented Saldana, “that this will come as no surprise to you after what happened last night.”
Alatriste thoughtfully folded up the note.
“And what do you know about last night?”
“Enough. I know, for example, that you were caught trespassing on the royal domain, and that you crossed swords with a friend.”
“News travels faster than the post, I see.”
“In certain circles, yes.”
A mendicant friar from San Blas, with his bell and his little collecting box, came over to them and offered them the image of the saint to kiss. “Praised be the purity of Our Lady the Virgin Mary,” he said meekly, shaking the box, then gave Saldana such a fierce look that Saldana thought better of it and walked on. Alatriste was thinking.
“I suppose this letter resolves everything,” he concluded.
Saldana was picking his teeth with a fingernail. He seemed relieved.
“I certainly hope so. If not, you’re a dead man.”
“In order for me to be a dead man, they’ll have to kill me first.”
“Just remember Villamediana. Not four paces from here they ripped his guts out. And he wasn’t the only one, either.”
Having said that, he stood vacantly watching some ladies who, escorted by duennas and maids carrying baskets, were eating sweet conserves, seated at the barrels of wine that served as tables outside the cake shop.
“So what it comes down to,” he said suddenly, “is that you’re just another sad soldier.”
Alatriste laughed mirthlessly.
“As you once were,” he retorted.
Saldana gave a deep sigh and turned to the captain.
“You said it—
He looked away, embarrassed. Rather the opposite was true of him. Rumor had it that he had gained his staff of office thanks to certain friendships cultivated by his wife. And he had, it seemed, killed at least one man for making jokes on the subject.
“Give me the letter.”
Alatriste, who was about to put it away, appeared surprised.
“It’s mine.”
