magnificent white horses and followed by another four coaches carrying the queen’s twenty-four handmaids and maids of honor. In the square, among the courtiers and other people crowding the area, the monarchs were greeted by Cardinal Barberini, the papal legate, who would be traveling in the company of the Dukes of Sessa and Maqueda, and so the greetings and salutations continued. With the royal party was the Infanta Maria Eugenia—only a few months old and in the arms of her nurse—the king’s brothers, the Infante Don Carlos, and the Prince of Wales’s impossible love, the Infanta Dona Maria, as well as the Cardinal-Infante Don Fernando, who had been Archbishop of Toledo since he was a boy and would eventually become general and governor of Flanders. Under his command, a few years later, Captain Alatriste and I would find ourselves battling hordes of Swedes and Protestants at Nordlingen. Amongst the courtiers closest to the king, I spotted the Count of Guadalmedina, wearing an elegant cape and French boots and breeches. Farther off, don Francisco de Quevedo was standing next to the count-duke’s son-in-law, the Marquis of Liche, reputed to be the ugliest man in Spain and married to one of the most beautiful women at court. And as the king and queen, the cardinal, and the nobles took their seats in their respective carriages, and the drivers cracked their whips and the cortege set off toward Santa Maria la Mayor and Puerta de la Vega, the people, delighted with the spectacle, applauded constantly. They even cheered the carriage in which I was sitting with the Marquis of Liche’s servants, but then, in this unhappy land of ours, we Spaniards have always been prepared to cheer almost anything.
The bell of the Hospital de los Aragoneses was ringing for matins. Diego Alatriste, who was awake and lying in his bed at the Fencer’s Arms, got up, lit a candle, and started pulling on his boots. He had more than enough time to get to the Ermita del Angel before daybreak, but crossing Madrid and the Manzanares River in the current circumstances was a very complicated enterprise indeed. Better to be there an hour before than a minute late, he thought. And so, once he had pulled on his boots, he poured some water into a bowl, washed his face, ate a morsel of bread to settle his stomach, and finished dressing, donning his buffcoat, buckling on dagger and sword, and wrapping the dagger in a piece of cloth so that it would not bang against his sword guard; and for that same reason, he put his metal spurs in his purse. Stuck in his belt behind and concealed by his cloak, he had the booty from his eventful visit to Calle de la Primavera—Gualterio Malatesta’s two pistols, which he had loaded and primed the previous evening. Then he put on his hat, glanced around in case he had forgotten anything, doused the light, and made his way out into the street.
He drew his cloak about him against the cold. Then, orienting himself in the dark, he left behind him Calle de la Comadre and reached the corner of Calle del Meson de Paredes and the Cabrestreros fountain. He stood there for a moment, motionless, thinking that he could hear something moving in the shadows, then he continued on, taking a shortcut along Embajadores to San Pedro. Finally, once past the tanneries, which were, of course, closed at that hour, he emerged onto the little hill of the Rastro, where, beyond the cross and the fountain, rose the somber bulk of the new abattoir, which stood out clearly in the light of a lantern in Plaza de la Cebada. The stench of rotten meat made it easy to recognize even in the dark. He was about to walk on when—and he had no doubts this time —he heard footsteps behind him. This could either be someone who simply happened to be there at the same time or someone who was following him. In case the latter proved to be the case, he sought refuge by the wall, folded back his cloak, shifted one of his pistols around to the front of his belt, and got out his sword. He stood for a while, utterly still, holding his breath to listen, until he could be sure that the footsteps were coming in his direction. Taking off his hat so as to be less noticeable, he leaned cautiously out and saw a shape approaching slowly. It could still be mere coincidence, he thought, but this was not the moment to leave anything to chance. He put on his hat again, and when the figure drew alongside him, stepped out, sword foremost.
“Damn your eyes, Diego!”
The last person Alatriste was expecting to see in that place and at that hour was Martin Saldana. The lieutenant of constables—or rather the sturdy shadow to whom the voice belonged—had started back in fright, swiftly unsheathing his sword; there was a metallic whisper and a faint glint of steel as he moved the blade from side to side, covering his guard like a veteran. Alatriste checked that the ground beneath his feet was smooth and unimpeded by loose stones, then he leaned his left shoulder against the wall to protect that side of his body. His right hand, however, remained free to wield his sword, thus complicating matters for Saldana, who, if he attacked, would find
“What the hell are
Saldana did not respond at once. He was still standing alert and ready. He was doubtless aware that his former comrade might try a trick they had both often used before—attacking an opponent while he was speaking. Talking was a distraction, and between men like them, an instant was all it took to find yourself with a foot of steel through your chest.
“You wouldn’t want me to let you slip the net that easily, would you?” said Saldana at last.
“Have you been watching me for long?”
“Since yesterday.”
Alatriste thought for a moment. If this were true, Saldana would have had ample time to surround the inn and have a dozen or so catchpoles on hand to arrest him.
“Why are you alone?”
Saldana paused a long time before answering. He was a man of few words and appeared to be searching hard for them now. Finally, he said:
“This isn’t official business. It’s private—between you and me.”
The captain carefully studied the solid shadow before him.
“Are you carrying pistols?”
“It’s all the same whether I or, indeed, you are. This is a matter for swords.”
His voice sounded oddly nasal. He must still be suffering from that headbutt the captain had dealt him. It was only logical, thought Alatriste, that Saldana should take his escape and the deaths of those catchpoles as a personal affront, and it was only fitting that his comrade from Flanders should want to resolve it man to man.
“This isn’t the moment,” he said.
Saldana replied in a slow, calm, reproachful voice:
“You seem to be forgetting who you’re talking to, Diego.”
The steel blade still glinted before him. The captain raised his sword a little, hesitated, then lowered it again.
“I don’t want to fight you. Your constable’s staff of office isn’t worth it.”
“I’m not carrying it with me tonight.”
Alatriste bit his lip, his fears confirmed. Saldana was clearly not prepared to let him leave without a fight.
“Listen,” he said, making one last effort. “I’m very close to sorting everything out. There’s someone I have to meet . . .”
“I don’t care a fig who you have to meet. You and I never finished our last meeting.”
“Just forget about it for this one night. I promise I’ll come back and explain.”
“Who’s asking you to explain?”
Alatriste sighed and ran two fingers over his mustache. They knew each other too well. There was nothing to be done. He adopted the en garde position, and Saldana took a step back, readying himself. There was very little light, but enough for them to be able to see the blades of their swords. It was, thought the captain sadly, almost as dark as it had been on that morning when Martin Saldana, Sebastian Co-pons, Lope Balboa, himself, and another five hundred Spanish soldiers cried out “Forward, Spain!,” made the sign of the cross, and then swarmed out of the trenches to climb the embankment in their assault on the del Caballo redoubt, in Ostend, an assault from which only half returned.
“Come on,” he said.
There was an initial clash of steel, and Saldana immediately made a circling movement with his sword and stepped away from the wall so as to have more freedom of movement. Alatriste knew who he was dealing with; they had been comrades-in-arms and had often practiced fencing together using buttoned fleurets. His opponent was a cool and skillful swordsman. The captain lunged forward, hoping to wound quickly and unceremoniously.
