though he had shot one of their comrades at point-blank range, they had not given in to the natural desire for revenge. He could understand this because he worked in the same trade. The really weighty questions were these: Who held the purse strings? Who was paying the piper? Who wanted him alive, and why?
As if in answer to these questions, the door was suddenly flung open and a bright light dazzled his eyes. A black figure stood on the threshold, with a lantern in one hand and a wineskin in the other.
“Good evening, Captain,” said Gualterio Malatesta.
It seemed to Alatriste that, lately, he always seemed to be seeing the Italian framed in doorways, either entering or leaving. This time, however, he was the one who was tied up like a sausage and Malatesta was seemingly in no hurry at all. He came over to him, crouched down beside him, and took a close look at him.
“I’m afraid you’re not your usual handsome self,” he commented drily.
The light hurt Alatriste’s eyes, and when he blinked, he realized that his left eye was so badly swollen he could barely open it. Nevertheless, he could still see his enemy’s pockmarked face and the scar above his right eyelid, a souvenir of their fight on board the
“I could say the same of you,” he said.
Malatesta’s mouth twisted into an almost conspirato rial smile.
“I’m sorry about this,” he said, looking at Alatriste’s bound hands. “Is the rope very tight?”
“Pretty tight, yes.”
“I thought so. Your hands are about the size and color of aubergines.”
He turned toward the door and called out. A man appeared. Alatriste recognized him as the man he had almost bumped into in Galapagar. Malatesta ordered him to slacken the rope binding Alatriste’s hands. While the man was doing this, Malatesta took out his dagger and held it to Alatriste’s throat, just to make sure that the captain didn’t take advantage of the situation. Then the man left, and they were alone again.
“Are you thirsty?”
“What do you think?”
Malatesta sheathed his dagger and held the wineskin to the captain’s lips, letting him drink as much as he wanted. He was observing him intently. By the light of the lantern, Alatriste could, in turn, study the Italian’s hard, dark eyes.
“Now, tell me what this is all about,” he said.
Malatesta’s smile broadened. It was, thought the captain, a smile that seemed to counsel Christian resignation, which, given the circumstances, was hardly encouraging. Malatesta thoughtfully probed one ear with his finger, as if carefully considering which word or words to use.
“Basically, you’re done for,” he said at last.
“And are you the one who’s going to kill me?”
Malatesta shrugged, as if to say: “What does it matter who kills you?”
“Yes, I suppose I will be,” he said.
“On whose behalf?”
Malatesta slowly shook his head, still not taking his eyes off the captain, but did not reply. Then he got to his feet and picked up the lantern.
“You have some old enemies,” he said, going over to the door.
“Aside from you, you mean?”
The Italian gave a harsh laugh.
“I’m not your enemy, Captain Alatriste, I’m your adversary. Do you not know the difference? An adversary respects you even if he stabs you in the back. Enemies are something else entirely. An enemy loathes you, even though he may praise and embrace you.”
“Cut the philosophy, please. You’re going to slit my throat and leave me to die like a dog.”
Malatesta, who was about to close the door, stopped for a moment, his head slightly bowed. He seemed to be hesitating over whether to add anything further or not.
“Well, ‘dog’ is perhaps a trifle strong,” he said at last, “but it will do.”
“Bastard.”
“Don’t be too upset about it. Remember the other day . . . in my house. And, by way of consolation, I will just say that you’ll be in illustrious company.”
“What do you mean, ‘illustrious’?”
“Guess.”
Alatriste put two and two together. The Italian was waiting at the door, circumspect and patient.
“You can’t be serious,” blurted out the captain.
“In the words of my compatriot Dante,” replied Malatesta,
“The king again?”
This time Malatesta did not reply. He merely smiled more broadly at Alatriste’s look of stupefaction.
“Well, that doesn’t console me in the least,” replied Alatriste, once he had recovered his composure.
“It could be worse. For you, I mean. You’re about to make history.”
Alatriste ignored the comment. He was still considering the really important question.
“According to you, then, someone still has one too many kings in the pack, and I’ve been chosen as the one to discard that king.”
As Malatesta was closing the door, Alatriste heard him laugh again.
“I said no such thing, Captain. But at least I’ll know that when I do kill you, no one will be able to say that I’m dispatching an innocent or an imbecile.”
“I love you,” Angelica said again.
I couldn’t see her face in the darkness. I was gradually coming to, waking from a delicious dream during which I had not, for one moment, lost consciousness. She still had her arms about me, and I could feel my heart beating against her satiny, half-naked flesh. I opened my mouth to utter those identical words, but all that emerged was a startled, exhausted, happy moan. After this, I thought confusedly, no one will ever be able to part us.
“My boy,” she said.
I buried my face in her disheveled hair, and then, after running my fingers over the soft curve of her hips, kissed the hollow above her shoulder blade, where the ribbons of her half-open chemise hung loose. The night wind was whistling in the roofs and chimneys of the palace. The room and the rumpled bed were a haven of calm. Everything else was excluded, suspended, apart from our two young bodies embracing in the darkness and the now slowing beat of my heart. And I suddenly realized, as if it were a revelation, that I had made that whole long journey—my childhood in Onate, the time I had spent in Madrid, in the dungeons of the Inquisition, and in Flanders, Seville, and Sanlucar—that I had survived all those hazards and dangers in order to become a man and to be there that night, in the arms of Angelica de Alquezar, that girl who, although only about the same age as me, was calling me “her boy,” and whose warm, mysterious flesh seemed to hold the key to my destiny.
“Now you’ll have to marry me,” she murmured, “one day . . .”
She said this in a tone that was both serious and ironic, in a voice that trembled strangely in a way that reminded me of the leaves on a tree. I nodded sleepily, and she kissed my lips. This kept at bay a thought that was trying to make its way through my consciousness, like a distant noise, rather like the wind blowing in the night. I tried to focus on that noise, but Angelica’s mouth and her embrace were stopping me. I stirred uneasily. There was something wrong. A memory of foraging in enemy territory near Breda surfaced in my mind. I recalled how that apparently tranquil green landscape of windmills, canals, woods, and undulating fields could unexpectedly unleash on you a detachment of Dutch cavalry. The thought returned, more intense this time. An echo, an image. Suddenly the wind howled more loudly outside the shutter, and I remembered. The captain’s face. A lightning flash, an explosion of panic. The captain’s face. Of course. Christ’s blood!
I sat up, detaching myself from Angelica’s arms. The captain had not kept his appointment, and there I was in bed, indifferent to his fate, plunged in the most absolute of oblivions.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
